Aerials
by Hrlyqin
Summary: A sequel to Dearest. With old foes vanquished, the only thing that can defeat Mycroft is time, age and the toll of his lifestyle. How will those around him cope when Mycroft Holmes topples?
1. Chapter 1

**Aerials**

**A Sherlock Fanfiction by Hrlyqin **

_**A/Ns – 1) This story is the sequel to 'Dearest', which must be read first (or, more accurately, you must read Dearest first if you want to understand Aerials. If you don't care so much about understanding it then go for it) and 2) I am a horrible author because I know I have several stories in progress but I couldn't wait to post this one. If you are a reader of Viburnum or Men of Valor, those will be continued at their own pace to make sure they come out the best they can. 3) Heartfelt thanks to Roxanne-Michal and Tadpole11, my constant muses.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

**Chapter One**

From as far back as he could remember, there was one thing that Jamie knew instinctively. One thing that he accepted as a fact when he questioned even the color of the sky.

Jamie knew that he was loved.

His wonderful, weird, slightly twitchy mother who spoiled him and doted on him and worried over him. She called him her dearest boy and loved him like no other.

His kind, funny Dad who taught him all the important things in life, like how to talk to girls and which Doctor Who was the best Doctor Who. He wasn't really his Dad, Jamie knew that, but that somehow rarely mattered.

His uncle loved him even though he made no secret of the fact that he hated pretty much everyone. It was sort of their secret that he was actually an extremely caring man.

And his father.

Jamie was just beginning to understand his father. He knew that he loved him. He knew that he cared deeply about Jamie growing up right. But he was starting to see that maybe Mycroft Holmes looked at Jamie as redemption, a way to make things right after a life of mistakes. Knowing this made Jamie love him all the more, because to him Mycroft was wonderful and loving and very sad, deep down beneath his smiles and jokes, and Jamie wanted more than anything for his father to be happy. If it took Jamie's fierce and unquestioning love, than he would freely give it.

He would protect him.

Even though he was only a boy.

When the man came through the gate that day and smiled at Jamie, he knew that he could not lead him to his father. He pretended to be nice, he smiled at him, but the smile did not reach his eyes and that was where Jamie looked. His Uncle had told him that he would always find answers in the eyes and these eyes reminded Jamie of a dark and warm place, a place where things slithered and hissed. Danger, said the eyes.

His feet wanted to run but he wouldn't allow it. He made himself stand his ground and smile back. With all his might he thought, _I'm just a stupid kid, I'm not trying to trick you, I'm not smart enough to, _and then he replied.

"He's not home. The car came and got him."

"Did. It. Now?" the man, the Other Jamie, said carefully.

"It happens all the time." Jamie kicked a stone. "He was supposed to take me to the park today but he's gone."

"So whose watching you, Jamie?"

"Lindley. D'you want me to go and get him?"

He knew that he was being **considered** right now. He stayed in his character. But oh he wanted to run so badly. The man...Other Jamie...the man with the slithery eyes...he smelled wrong and his skin was wrong. It was too tight, like a plastic bad stretched over a skull. What could make his skin that way?

"Do you know what I think?" Other Jamie reached out and touched his chest, one finger poking him solidly. "I think you're lying to me. I think that Papa's inside right now, halfway through the good whiskey. All I need to do is push you aside, go in there and bash his fucking skull in. He's probably so drunk he wouldn't even feel it. Should I do that, Jamie?"

"W-what?"

"You heard me fine, boy. I said that I was going in to walk into that house, find your father and beat his head in until his brains fly out. Then I am going to go find your mother. I know she's not here, but I can find her quick. I'll find her and I'll cut her eyes out of her head. I'll make you watch. Do you want that?"

Somehow, he managed to shake his head. He was strong. He needed to protect his father. He couldn't cry. Only scared little kids cried. But tears started sliding down his cheeks.

"No. Right. Smart guy. You don't want that. But I'll make you a deal." He reached into his suit and Jamie thought maybe he was getting a knife but no, he pulled out a manilla envelope, folded up and battered. Other Jamie reached out and took the boy's hands. He worked them mechanically, Jamie not fighting at all, until he was grasping the envelope, holding it tight to his chest.

"Give that to your father. Tell him I say hello. He'll know who I am. Do that for me and I won't come back and murder you in your sleep. Don't do it and...well..."

"I'll do it." Jamie promised.

"Smart guy." Other Jamie repeated. "I can see the family resemblance."

Jamie the brave, Jamie who would protect his father, stood there until the man left. He held the envelope tightly but his feet, which had wanted so badly to run were now frozen in place. He couldn't stop crying and he hated himself for it. He really was a stupid little kid. Just a stupid little kid.

That was how Mycroft found him nearly 20 minutes later, standing in the yard and crying. He had called out to him, telling him to either get inside or get his coat on, but when he didn't move Mycroft had come across the lawn. When his hand touched his shoulder, Jamie leapt up with fright.

"Jamie, what's happened?"

"I-I...I was here and there was a m-man and he...cu-cu..cut, he was going to cut off Mum's fingers, he sa-id so but he said I had to g-g-giv-giv..." Like his feet, his tongue got stuck, worse than his mother's ever had when she was frightened, and he just couldn't get the words out. He finally just pushed the envelope, now wet with tears and the sweat from his hands, at Mycroft.

Instead of opening it, Mycroft stuffed it into his pocket and scooped Jamie up into his arms. Shushing him, reassuring him and mostly just holding him tightly, he carried Jamie inside and straight up to his room, laying him across the bed. He didn't speak, he didn't tell him it would all be okay, and he also didn't press him with questions. He just waited until Jamie was calm enough to start talking on his own.

When he could, the boy recounted the story word for word. Mycroft remained passive, quiet and still while he listened. Jamie finished with, "Then I gave you the envelope. Are you going to open it?"

"Soon." Mycroft replied, making it a casual reply, even punctuating it with a smile. "Do you feel better now?"

Jamie nodded. "You're going to make everything okay, right?"

"Without a doubt."

"Okay...Father, I'm sleepy."

"Well, why don't you take a nap and I'll get some work done. When you wake up it will be dinner time."

"Can we have pizza?"

He grimaced, and it was not an expression he had to feign. "Yes. Pizza. I love you."

"Love you too."

Mycroft made sure he was properly tucked in and then, after taking in a visual account of all the windows being secure and every nook and cranny empty, he left Jamie to take a little nap. While he walked out of the room and shut the door quietly, he was every inch the reassuring parent. His expression was benign. His "Sleep tight." was soft and loving.

He walked seventeen steps down the hallway and he took the envelope out of his pocket.

It had been folded many times over, made to fit into another jacket pocket. Judging from the wear and tear on the paper, he could tell that the man who had carried it before him was approximately 1.9304 meters tall, extremely physically fit and a little bit over 16 stone in weight. He favored his left side when he walked, you could see from the way the edges on one particular fold were worn. The paper smelled of linen, cotton and silk, all to be expected, a slight whiff of cinnamon so the pocket had also held gum or some other sort of breath freshener. Apart from the already observed imperfections, the outside of the envelope held no distinctive marks. Going by the weight, size and balance of the envelope, it did not hold much. Something flat, small, with sharp corners and no raised embellishments. A single sheet or paper perhaps or...no, a postcard. There was a postcard inside.

Still not opening the envelope he walked to his study, thinking as he went. James Beecher, thought by the local authorities as well as all intelligence they had to be the relatively harmless, honest living brother of a devil among men, was clearly anything but. He came to his home. He threatened a child...

_He **threatened **Jamie... _

Mycroft's hand closed into a fist as he continued down the hall.

He threatened a child with obscenely graphic promises of violence. And then, he left. Clearly, he wanted to send a message. To whom? Sherlock perhaps, but Mycroft almost certainly. He recalled how Moriarty had reacted when he had killed Moran. This was similar but somewhat uncouth. Not as polished. Not as neat. Both he and his brother had agreed with the conclusion that James felt a distaste for his brother and his lifestyle, even if there was a familial bond. Sherlock had been fairly certain Moriarty must have either killed or coerced James into use of the house in Switzerland. They had been mistaken.

When Mycroft reached his desk, it was almost as an afterthought that he opened the envelope. Postcard, as he had suspected. Reichenbach Falls. The sentiment was 'Wish You Were Here!'. Cute. Far more clever than the brazen act of coming here to deliver it.

He loosened his tie as he sat down to work. He had to focus now. He wanted a drink worse than he had ever in a long time but no, he stayed sober. He typed a quick email, encrypted, instructing all his agents in the field to check in as soon as possible, and any agents stationed for observation to immediately report and step up the surveillance on distant family, friends and those who might give him aide. If Mycroft was right, the next step would be to kill someone as an example that James Beecher meant business.

Unbidden, thoughts of Callie came to him. Thoughts of Violet. All the others. Molly laying in her hospital bed. Sherlock on his crutches. The cliffs. His heart pounded against his chest and seemed to burn as it started to hammer.

What would it cost them this time?

Jamie could have been killed...Jamie!...and Molly was still at risk, and pregnant again. What would John Watson do if she died? Worse...there was John. What would Sherlock do if John were to die? Images of the doctor in a pool of blood swam through his mind. Sherlock, was that what it would be? An eye for an eye, a brother for a brother?

Sherlock, dead. Blood across his face. Mycroft unable to save him. Unable to be absolved for all the ways in which he had fallen short of what a brother should be. Pale eyes that had nothing behind them anymore. A mouth that would never again quirk into a cruel remark or cunning observation. Long fingers still forever. Stupid unruly dark curls to be slicked back by a mortician and flattened for display.

Sherlock. Dead. Would it come to that?

Mycroft felt like he couldn't breathe. No, there was no time for this. He had to call Mattigan. Let Lestrade know maybe, but the police might decide to approach the suspect and then, good God. So much to do, he couldn't waste the minutes it would take to fall apart.

Water, he needed a drink and then he would be fine. He took his phone with him and started tapping out a text to Sherlock as he went.

_Come immediately. Unexpected guest. Jamie is_

Sherlock, reading it, would not know what Jamie was or wasn't because the text arrived unfinished. Mycroft did have a certain contempt for messaging so it was possible he hit a button incorrectly or just decided not to finish. But neither was the case. As Mycroft's fingers had moved to complete his sentence, he had felt a sharp pain shoot up his left arm. The phone dropped out of his hand and as he bent over to get it, everything started to blur.

Head thumping softly against the carpet, Mycroft collapsed onto the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Aerials – Chapter Two **

Sherlock Holmes never did just one thing. His mind was too massive, too fast and too extraordinary to be wasted on any singular activity. True, he could focus for long periods on the analysis of evidence or upon the theories of a crime, but these times were always spent attacking the obvious thoughts from many different angles as to have a perfect understanding of every eventuality and nuance. He preferred to be thinking of at least 10 things at any one time, and found that his brain functioned optimally when he was mediating on no less than 5.

Currently, the great man sat on a horribly upholstered couch in a horrible hospital lounge area, his head leaning against the pale green wall and his eyes tilted towards the window. John was speaking to him, but he was listening even less than usual, letting his brain become preoccupied with the varying textures of suede and the impressions left by gloves made out of such material. He was not wondering what he would do if Mycroft were to die, or how he would answer the questions that Jamie would have. He was not by any means worried. He was certainly not frightened. His mind was too busy for any of that.

He noticed that at some point, John had actually stopped talking and was now holding a cup of coffee. Had he left the room without Sherlock noticing? It wouldn't be the first time that had happened, certainly, but considering that John was hobbling around on crutches with pain on his face whenever he walked, it would have taken him a long time to get to the coffee machine down the hall and back.

"You haven't been listening to a word I've said, have you?" John asked.

"No. Wait...you said 'whilst' at some point, did you not?"

John closed his eyes, undoubtedly counting to 10 or reciting a religious phrase to keep him from belting Sherlock, and then just started to repeat himself from the beginning.

"We're not sure how long it was before Jamie found Mycroft. Dr. Medina thinks there may be some lasting effects due to lack of oxygen to the brain. He still isn't conscious, and at the very least they'll keep him as a patient for the next few days. When he's ready to come home, there are going to need to be serious changes. No alcohol in the house. He'll probably have a diet to stick to. He won't be able to work, I don't know how you go about taking leave... if you send up a flare or alert the Queen...but he can't have any of that stress. This is all best-case scenario stuff, Sherlock, it needs to happen no matter what. I really don't know how well Mycroft is going to take being told he can't drink that or he has to eat this or he needs to stay in bed, so it might be tricky at first. I'll help you however I can, maybe it's best to hire someone who can do the housework and some of the medical stuff while you are making sure he behaves."

"While I'm _what_?"

"We should probably call Mrs. Hudson, you'll need to stay at his place for awhile."

"John." he said slowly, in his perfectly reasonable tone, "I don't have the slightest idea what you are talking about."

"We're..." John was at a little bit of a loss. He had dealt with a lot of family members in this situation. He was giving his best reassuring speech, not using too many big words, not talking about the worst possibilities, etc. But he had never had anyone respond by saying they didn't know what the hell he meant. "...I'm trying to help you make some plans for the future. I know it will be a big adjustment for you, but Mycroft is going to need someone to take care of him, at least right now."

"John-"

"We'll take Jamie, of course. So don't worry about that."

"John, I'm not …..moving in with Mycroft." He wrinkled his nose. "Honestly, could you be any more pedestrian?"

"Um...pardon?"

"Mycroft is here because of someone who hunted him, like an animal. Didn't you listen to Jamie? This is the brother, it can't be anyone except the brother. Do you think I am going to let some obese, underpaid _policeman_ handle this? Don't be absurd. I'll be in charge of this investigation, and I will find James Beecher, and **obviously **I can't do that if I am stuck in London playing nursemaid to Mycroft. Hire someone. You can handle it. That's why I called you."

John's mouth dropped open.

He remember getting the call. He'd been stretched out in bed. Molly had been asleep next to him, even though it was early still. They'd had a busy day, a little bit of fighting but a lot more making up, carefully arranged around his wounded legs. He had just been thinking about waking her up and asking her to bring him a sandwich, being that he was her brave soldier. But before he could reach out to touch her, his phone had sprung to life on the bedside table. He saw that it was Sherlock, and he thought about ignoring it, but something had told him that he needed to answer. Sherlock rarely called. He texted. Something must be wrong.

Sherlock didn't even let him say hello. As soon as the call connected, he heard his friend's deep voice. "John, come home immediately. Mycroft is in the hospital. Jamie is physically alright but very upset. I need you." Then he had hung up.

He had looked at the phone in disbelief. He tried calling back but of course Sherlock didn't answer. Half an hour later, they had been on the road. John kept trying to call, but Sherlock refused to speak to him again. He received specifics about which hospital Mycroft was in and a few text messages _(Speaking with Drs now, Jamie given drugs and is now sleeping)_ that did nothing to illuminate the situation and actually only made John feel worse. He was practically maddened by the time he and Molly had arrived at the hospital. Swinging himself around on his crutches, he had outpaced his wife and grabbed the first nurse he could get his hands on.

"I'm looking for my friend. He came in with his brother and a little boy. He's...um, tall, very handsome, extremely irritating."

"Oh, you mean Mr. Holmes! His brother came in through Emergency, but they've taken him upstairs now. Second floor, ask at the nurse's station."

John released her, filing away for later his need to ask Sherlock exactly what he had said to who that got him so readily identified, and then it was a race to the elevator, then to the station and then to the lounge in which John and Sherlock now sat.

He had been in the same place, on the sofa, but with Jamie stretched out across the majority of it, his tiny head resting on Sherlock's leg. The boy's face was red from crying and looked weary, even in sleep. Molly went around John and scooped up her son, apologizing and excusing herself a few times as she tried to work the child out of Sherlock's lap. Jamie didn't even stir as he was taken up and away so his mother could hug him fiercely.

Molly clearly had that covered so John turned his attention to Sherlock. Mycroft was hurt. He wasn't sure, especially with how they had been lately, how Sherlock would feel. But the stoic man looked the same as ever. If he was hurt, if he was scared, none of it reached the surface. Awkwardly, John sat himself down next to his friend. If he asked how he was feeling, he knew he wouldn't get a straight answer, so he opened with, "What happened?"

"Jamie found Mycroft. He had collapsed. He wasn't responding. Emergency services came and got the both of them, Jamie called me from the hospital. He wouldn't," Sherlock paused for a second and just for that one moment, traces of sadness crossed his face, "he wouldn't stop crying. When they brought Mycroft to a private room, it only upset him more to be in there, so I brought him out here. Mycroft still isn't awake so it didn't seem to make a difference if anyone was at his bedside."

That was the only time Sherlock had shown any emotion, over Jamie being so upset that the doctor had given him a pill to help him sleep. Molly had taken the boy back to their house, knowing that they would figure out exactly what was going on later, and John had tried to just be there for Sherlock, talking to the doctors when Sherlock failed to respond, trying to get him to drink something, the usual. He had been...tricked. He had come racing home because Jamie clearly needed his parents, of course, but also for Sherlock. He had raced there, breaking all laws of travel, his heart thumping nervously in his chest, feeling a sick sort of frantic drive the entire time, because Sherlock had said he **needed** him. John thought that meant his friend needed him by his side, because he didn't know what to do, because he couldn't face the possibility of Mycroft dying, but no, Sherlock just wanted him to babysit while he went off to save the day.

That was why he called him.

At least a dozen times a day, John wanted to punch Sherlock. Everyone felt that way. He just got under your skin. John had known his for so very long, and he was used to a lot of it, but the disbelief at his behavior never went away fully. Right now, he didn't just want to hit Sherlock. He wanted to hit him over and over. He wanted to beat some sense or feeling or...shit, some propriety into him.

But he didn't think either of them would survive that. He also doubted it would work.

Sherlock wanted to be calm about this, John would be calm. Reasonable. "Sherlock, you can't do that."

"I think I can, actually."

"No, I mean, Sherlock, you can't do that. Mycroft needs you. I know you don't think so, you guys aren't 'like that', but he does. Besides, I can't stand in for you, not this time. I'm on crutches for Christ's sake. Molly's pregnant, she can't be running around dealing with Mycroft's every whim."

"Yes she can."

"Look, I know you want to go after this man. I do too. I'm right there with you. But your place is here."

"I do not simply want to 'go after this man', John. You don't understand...I shouldn't be surprised. How long have we been at war with Moriarty? How many years has this been my obsession? You can't tell me that I have to stop now. This is my investigation and **I will **finish it."

Reasonable, John had decided. Well, he was officially ready to fuck reasonable because it wasn't working. Maybe shouting common sense would be a better tactic. "Alright, I'll tell you what, you go off, disappear, drop out of sight like you always do when anything emotional is happening. Fine! But I promise you that when you get back...if you ever bloody come back...Jamie and I won't be here. He'll see Mycroft, but I will never let that child see you again because clearly, you don't give a shit about the people in your life and I don't want you to abandon him at some hospital so you can play detective!"

"John-"

"Yes, James Beecher is a bad,bad man. I know that better than anyone. He didn't threaten **your** son. He didn't even try to kill your brother. Mycroft had a heart attack, Sherlock. Beecher showing up didn't help but you can't live like he does forever and not have something happen to you. This is because of too much drinking, too much yo-yo dieting, never getting any sleep, the smoking, his job...so don't tell me you're on some kind of mission, because if you really wanted to honor Mycroft, you'd fucking honor him by making sure he gets through this. I don't even know...I don't even know why I bother, if you don't understand why you can't leave, no matter how much you want to."

"John-"

"I'm done, Sherlock."

Sherlock jumped off the couch, letting himself loom over John. There was emotion in his face now and it was fury. "I'm glad you've decided what is right and wrong for me, John. Genius work. You must be getting more intelligent by osmosis. So here is something for your masterful mind to ponder – what is going to happen when Beecher comes back to get you, or Molly, like he so colorfully described? What's going to happen if I just sit here until he murders one of you? How are we going to explain that to Jamie? If he cuts your unborn child out of your wife's womb..."

Sherlock did not get to finish what he was saying because quite unexpectedly, the padded arm rest of a crutch struck him across the face. He was just starting to recover from that when the same wooden crutch hit him in the chest and pushed him backwards.

He was being beaten with a medical aide.

"John..." he started, again. Honestly, usually it was him that was cutting people off. But John swooped him and smacked him in the gut this time with the top of the crutch. "John! Stop this. You're being ridiculous!"

"No, I'm being **angry! **I am fed up with you and your not caring about anyone and I am fed up with having the same damned argument with you over and over again! How many times am I going to have to remind you to think of the people who care about you? Does it never bloody stop? Don't give me that, oh I need to save everyone speech. You just thought of that. It's an excuse, and I am SICK of your excuses! You are going to act like a grown up, Sherlock Holmes. If I have to beat you silly to get you to do that, I will. If I have to crawl off my deathbed and smack you around with my own amputated limbs, I will. Just. Try. Me."

"**I** need to behave like a grown up? Listen to yourself, you're sitting there telling me you'll come after me with bedpans if I don't behave myself. What are you going to do next, spank me?" he challenged.

"Just try me." John repeated, trying to remain grim. This was his serious look, this one right here.

"Maybe. I. Will." Sherlock enunciated.

They stared each other down, John trying to process exactly what that meant and how he should take it, and Sherlock just looking defiant and vaguely snotty as usual. John's eyes narrowed and Sherlock's flashed.

"Oh get off." John said finally. "I'm angry with you."

The tension, which had not only threatened to, but actually had boiled over, broke between them.

"Well I don't appreciate your use of corporal punishment." Sherlock replied, sitting back down.

Both of them breathed. Neither one felt especially like yelling anymore, but they didn't feel like speaking right now either. They sat for perhaps fifteen minutes, laughing a little at themselves and adjusting, Sherlock discreetly rubbing at his cheek and John shifting his legs where the movement had jarred them. Then, without discussion, both of them got up and went into Mycroft's room, Sherlock following after John to see for himself that he was steady on his crutches. The anger, over their behavior, their unwillingness to listen to the other, and the whole ugly situation, was quelled for the moment by John's outburst and descent into cartoon violence.

Any grudges John might have held disappeared when he saw Mycroft.

The captain of the universe was stretched out in the wide white bed. His skin had a sheen to it, and with his eyes closed he looked older than John could have imagined Mycroft would look. Machines beeped and ticked around the room as John approached the bed, giving Sherlock's brother a physicians appraisal. He had on a hospital gown. His hair was messy. But there was also something elusively different about him, apart from all of those things, that John could not quite place his finger on but knew was there. Not wanting to ask Sherlock, he stalled by the bedside until it came to him.

Here, in this room, Mycroft was without dignity.

"I'm sorry." he said, to Mycroft and Sherlock.

After a long, deciding silence, Sherlock said, "Me too."

"I'd never take Jamie away, I shouldn't have said that."

"I know."

"You just make me so goddamned aggravated. Of course you want to go after Moriarty's brother. I do too. But you can't Sherlock, you have responsibilities here. I'll help you, but I can't just do everything while you disappear."

"I know."

After a beat, John said, "He's going to be fine."

"I don't believe that. He will never be the same again."

"Don't say that."

"It's the truth." Sherlock shrugged.

"If it was Harry lying here, I'd be devastated."

"Don't lie John. You'd be relieved."

"That too, but I wouldn't know what to do with myself. I'd be so frightened. I'd just think of every stupid thing I ever said to her, and everything I really wanted to say but never did. All those moments between siblings, the dumb fights, the stuff you can't let go off, how much I hate her, none of it would matter anymore. I'd just want her to be okay."

"Well," Sherlock said carefully, very carefully, with the slow caution of someone deflowering a virgin, "it's a good thing this isn't happening to you then."

"I'd be scared to death. She's older, she's always been there. Maybe I took that for granted. I can't imagine what it would be like if she just suddenly wasn't. I don't think I could handle it."

"And that is why I need you." Sherlock circled the bed so that he could look at Mycroft and at John. "Someone to feel all those things for me. I'm never going to be good at that. I'll never be a caring, feeling person like the rest of you. I don't see the point, nor do I have it in me. But I've got you for that."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Take care of Jamie, assist me in navigating medical matters. Will you be staying at your home? I suppose you will. I don't need to tell you about the danger. If Beecher would come to Mycroft's home, no one is really safe." Sherlock became all business again, and John let him. "Normally, this is the point where my older brother would make a few phone calls and have guards posted at every corner and fresh security cameras up."

Suddenly, in this awful room, Sherlock started smiling, his mouth stretching out into his bruised cheek. John gave him his puzzled look. He didn't see what there was to smile about at all.

"Don't you see? No, stupid question. How many times do I have to tell you that Mycroft practically IS the British government? Now, with him convalescing, I need to, as you so eloquently reminded me, take care of his affairs." John still wasn't with him as his puzzled expression hadn't changed. "I get to post the guards now, John. I can put up the security cameras. I know some of Mycroft's people. I'll make some calls. I won't have the same power but once I start calling in his favors...Oh this is excellent. It will save me so much time. I can finally look at Anderson's official file. Demand body parts. I can get into any crime scene I want to."

"You already do that." John reminded him.

"Yes but now I won't need to spend so much energy figuring out how. I'll snap my fingers. This..." He clapped his hands together as he had another realization. "This is what Mycroft has wanted all along, for me to join him in his business. He only had to have a heart attack to get me to do it."


	3. Chapter 3

**Aerials** – **a Sherlock fanfiction by Hrlyqin, based on properties owned by their creators. **

**Chapter Three**

_When he had collapsed, the pain Mycroft experienced was unbearable. One instant he was awash in agony, the next he had somehow passed through the pain, as people do sometimes when it is simply too much for their nervous system to handle, and he had just enough time to think, 'this is it'..._

_And then there had been nothing. _

_The next time that Mycroft opened his eyes, he was looking up at a clear sky. The round sun shown brilliantly, warming his skin and distantly he heard the chirp of birds. He was flat on his back and his body was gently swaying back and forth. The sound of the birds was replaced by a rhythmic lapping. _

_Water. _

_He was on the water. _

_Struggling up on his elbows, he realized that he was in a rowboat. On a lake, on a beautiful day. Was this heaven? That was a surprise, as Mycroft was fairly certain he wouldn't have made the cut. But if this was heaven, where was everyone else? _

_His was the sole boat on the lake. He could see the shore from where he was, a strip of white and then endless rolling greenery. A tree is the distance. But no one waving to him. No families gathered. Maybe this was what heaven was for him, a lack of idiocy to have to placate, and blissful silence. _

_He lay back again, looking at the sky, until he lost track of time. The sun didn't seem to move so there was no way to know how many hours had passed, if hours even did pass here. He was just getting used to the idea of solitude when he heard a splashing noise and then saw a hand clutching at the side of the boat. Even though he was by now certain he was dead, and therefore whoever this was would also be dead, he sprang up and grabbed the hand, making sure they did not slip back underneath the water. He grabbed at white fabric and pale arms, pulling them over the side and into the boat. _

_It was only then, when they were safe and he was noticing that he wasn't even out of breath, that he even bothered to look at who it was. _

"_Hello Mycroft." _

"_Hello Violet." _

"_Fancy meeting me here, right?" _

"_Well, if there was anyone else I was absolutely sure wasn't getting into heaven..." _

"_What makes you think this is heaven?" _

"_Observation." _

"_Okay, then what makes you think we're really here at all?" She sat up, so they could each take one of the rowboat's seats and face each other. Her hair was sopping wet, and although water drops rolling down her skin, Mycroft noticed that none of them were hitting her feet. _

"_Aren't we?" he replied. _

"_You're the clever one, you tell me." _

"_Violet, you were always very clever. I hope you know..." he swallowed, "I hope you knew that." _

"_Did I?" she twisted her fingers into that wet hair. "I can't remember. Not that it matters though. It's all the same in the end." _

_He reached over, for some reason not knowing if she would be solid even though he had just pulled her from the water. His hand gently sought and found hers again, and it was real to the touch, even though her skin was not as warm as his. "It's not such a bad ending, I suppose, you and I alone together for eternity." _

_She laughed, a hollow sound, and Mycroft looked up to see clouds rolling in quickly, covering the sun. He was suddenly just as cold as she was. _

"_What makes you think we're alone?" _

_Another hand shot up out of the water. Mycroft jumped but Violet didn't even move as it rattled the boat. Mycroft caught just a glimpse, a flash of eyes, of their assailant. Sebastian Moran. _

_Maybe this was hell after all. _

_Mycroft tried to pry the specter's hands off the boat but they wouldn't budge and Violet wasn't helping. She just watched sadly as he struggled and from the other side another body appeared out of the water, this one a co-worker of Mycroft's who had killed himself over some photographs. Photos Mycroft had leaked. But it had just been business..._

"_It was nothing personal!" he shouted as the tiny boat was pitched back and forth. _

_As soon as the words left him, he saw her. Her sleek dark hair came up out of the water a few yards away and she floated towards them to join the attack, her hands gripping on and managing to tear away one of the oars. _

"_Callie...I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." _

_If she heard him, if she could speak, she didn't respond. She continued to tear and rend. There were more now, all around him, coming for him out of the water...there was his father, jaundiced eyes rimmed in red, there was the man from Poland who had been a double agent, Marie...no, that had been an accident. The men from the house were there too...bodies everywhere, hands everywhere. Violet so perfectly still as the boat was ripped apart and both she and Mycroft were thrown into the water. _

_He grabbed her arm and tried to keep her near, tried to protect her as they closed in on him now. It was all he could do to keep kicking, keep fighting as they grabbed. He tried, but there were so many. Were there really so many deaths that he had been responsible for? _

_He was pulled down, strong arms holding him legs, and as he sank below the surface he realized that it wasn't water at all anymore. It was blood. _

_._

_._

_._

This time when Mycroft opened his eyes, there was no blue sky, only the sterile white ceiling tiles of the hospital. Someone had drawn the blinds and the entire room was cast in a gloomy darkness. Taking a survey of his surroundings, he saw a side table covered in flowers, a rolling tray covered in flowers, a windowsill covered in flowers and a lumpy chair covered with his brother.

Sherlock was staring at his telephone, his fingers moving quickly as he texted. Mycroft had to clear his throat loudly before Sherlock even looked up. When he did, he seemed to be waiting for something, so Mycroft had to speak first.

"Is this the part where I ask where I am?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked curiously into not-really-a-smile. "Except it's obvious."

"How long have I been here?"

"A week."

He sighed. "If something had happened to Jamie, you would not be here."

"Jamie is fine." Sherlock replied, but Mycroft noted a hesitance in his words.

"Well, is he or isn't it?"

"Jamie is fine, upset, but fine. John and Molly returned from the sea. They're being looked after, don't worry. No one has seen James Beecher since he visited you. There is no record of him ever being in the country. The police have not been involved."

His brother spoke in a rote tone, like relaying the information was exhaustingly dull. How typical. He did not expect Sherlock to weep and beat his chest in sorrow but his utter lack of concern or compassion was a little off-putting right now. "Am I keeping you from something?" Mycroft asked tersely.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but they were interrupted by a nurse coming round to take vitals and generally poke and prod. She smiled too broadly, her voice was too cheerful and Mycroft was happy when she left. As soon as she had gone, Sherlock pushed himself forward in the chair and drew a notebook from his pocket. He opened it, uncapped a pen and started writing.

"Sherlock what are you doing...and why are you wearing a tie?" Mycroft asked. He had just noticed that the other man was sporting neckwear. Silk. This was not something he had borrowed from the dapper yet functional John Watson, and the last time Sherlock had worn a tie may have been at gunpoint, so it was not something he just had on hand. It was good quality and at some point recently his brother or someone at his brother's order must have purchased it. Again, **not** John Watson. It was from Richard James on Savile Row and Mycroft was fairly certain they had snipers on standby if anyone in a jumper and sensible shoes tried to enter the shop. Not Mrs. Hudson either, although she would have gladly run the errand for him, she also lacked the fashion caliber to have selected this particular garment. So who, and more importantly, why?

"I've had meetings." Sherlock replied stiffly, setting the notebook on his knee to unknot the tie and toss it onto a corner of table not occupied by flowers.

Mycroft started to ask who exactly he wanted to impress so badly then it became clear, hitting him like slaps across the face. Molly and her family had some sort of protection detail. Police were not involved but Sherlock had knowledge of their records as well as the transportation department's. His insolent brother had put on a good tie and had to play nice with others, so they must have been the sort of people he could not afford to alienate. It was clear. Sherlock must have gone to Mycroft's people.

He was impressed.

He was also flattered.

He hid a tiny, incredibly satisfied smile. Perhaps now Sherlock would see the wisdom of Mycroft's methods, of his work. Maybe they could become true brothers, work together, if they could do that there would truly be no stopping them. All the years of resentment, misunderstandings and lies could be put behind them. Now that he was seeing how it was done, the way you had to go about things, maybe now Sherlock would finally _understand_.

Now this was heaven.

He felt the urge to leap up out of bed, to embrace his brother, to tell him of all the things they could do, all the wrongs they could write, the kingdoms they could rule. He wanted to tell him that he loved him.

Instead, he said, "What the devil are you writing?"

"_What the devil are you writing_?" Sherlock repeated. "Monday, 2:38pm." He flipped a page back in his notebook. "_Who took all the lemon ones, those are my favorite. _Monday, 9:16am. _Sherlock, I want you to know that if anything should happen to me, make sure Jamie is taken care of, and his mother. I've made arrangements but I fear they may not be carried out. _Sunday, 6:45pm. _Damn Mrs. Pearce, damn the coffee, and damn you. _Saturday, 12:01am. On Thursday you recited the Modern Major-General's song from the Pirates of Penzance."

"Don't be ludicrous. I don't remember any of that happening."

"You say that every time too. I don't remember any of that happening. What **is** the last thing that you remember, Mycroft?"

"Collapsing."

"And what if I were to tell you that in the week since then, you've been awake for hours, you've spoken to me, _tried_ to give me instructions and answered questions the doctors asked you. You've telephoned Jamie and had a long conversation with Molly during which you made me leave the room. Lindley brought your mah jongg set and you won three games yesterday."

"I...all of that?"

"Here." Sherlock held out his notebook as an offering and Mycroft took it in one hand, which wanted badly to shake. "It is not the medication you are on, or any other sort of drug interaction. I've asked, and then I did some research myself on the matter."

Mycroft turned slowly through the pages. Now he understood the man's initial irritation, they must have had the same conversation many times. Sherlock had recorded everything Mycroft had said and done during his waking periods, but none of it seemed familiar to him. He mumbled some of the words he had spoken and they seemed alien. He knew that sometimes people who were sedated had memory problems but Sherlock said he had discounted that explanation and Mycroft believed him. Even if he was tired and under a great deal of stress and even if he was very ill, _something_ should have a chord. _Something_ should touched upon his memory. But none of it did.

"I need to get the doctor." Sherlock said, rising and flying from the room.

Mycroft watched him go, genuinely confused. Not only was Sherlock claiming that he was having some neurological problems, but more troubling, Sherlock seemed **concerned**. The way that he had raced away just now, it was quick but not so quick that Mycroft did not notice the troubled look on his face as he went.


	4. Chapter 4

**Aerials, Chapter Four**

"And then what happened?"

When he didn't immediately get an answer, Jamie reached reached over and, with the delicacy of a small child, bashed Mycroft's knee more than shook it. "Father? What happened then?"

Mycroft blinked and looked around. Home...his home. Jamie was here. What time was it? It was dark out, it felt late, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. What day was it? He had to concentrate to summon the last memory he had, arguing with Sherlock over computer access, and then estimate that this must be later the same day. Thursday. But something between then and now, something big, was missing.

So much was these days.

Jamie was still looking at him expectantly. "Sorry, where was I?"

"You were telling me about when Uncle Sherlock was born and how you just wanted to read your book."

"Right...yes, of course. I didn't see what all the fuss was over. What new baby could possibly be as impressive as I was? I'll tell you something else too, Sherlock was an extremely ugly infant."

Jamie giggled.

"He looked like an albino yam."

"No, not really?"

"Yes. Hideous. I was afraid my parents were going to send him back. I would have. As you can see, he did not improve with age either. I got all of the good looks in the family."

Jamie either did not realize or did not think it important that Mycroft had drifted away for a moment. He laughed at poor homely Sherlock's misfortune and then asked seriously, "Do you think baby Carolyn will be ugly?"

Carolyn? He didn't remember that. So Molly was having a girl. There would not be a single pink blanket, hat, onesie, lamp shade, teddy bear, sock or spit up rag left in all of London. He wasn't sure if he had bought her anything or not...wait, no, he remember now. Molly said she was having a girl and she was so excited, she went on about how happy John was and Mycroft had felt vaguely nauseous about the whole thing, and he told her she could pick out whatever she wanted for the nursery and he'd take care of the cost. They had been alone together. John and Jamie had gone on a boy's weekend somewhere and he had gone with Molly... ..somewhere...somewhere...

_Come on Mycroft! If you can read Latin you can remember a simple shopping errand! _

John had taken Jamie to see Stonehenge and spend the day 'kicking around' (John's terminology). Right here, in this same room, they had been talking about their plans and Jamie had begged for his Uncle Sherlock to go because he knew all about the aliens that built it (Jamie's theory, which Sherlock would be all too happy to indulge). There had been some concern, to Mycroft's annoyance, about leaving him alone all day. As if he needed a babysitter. As if he were a child. Trying to change the subject, Molly had mentioned she was going to go look at things for the nursery and suddenly it had been decided that he could join her. John hadn't seemed annoyed. John had not been drinking around Mycroft that evening because Mycroft was not allowed to drink. John was being considerate during his illness, he remembered. It was different from John's begrudging tolerance of him before Reichenbach. They were not friends, not exactly, but they had come to an understanding that the same people were important to them so there was more common ground than they had thought. In any case, John had not objected to Mycroft and Molly going shopping together. So while the boys went to look at giant rocks, Mycroft had taken Molly to Harrods.

"Look at this!" she said about a hundred times that day, exclaiming over every garishly pink item. While Mycroft tried to steer her towards tastefully subtle rosebud patterns and pastel hues, Molly grabbed at anything bright or shiny. Pink monkeys. Flowers with smiley faces and long eyelashes. A mobile that was more glitter than mobile.

At one point she held up a blanket featuring a character with neon hair and a frankly bizarre nose, a pattern repeated to infinity on the fabric. He had looked blank at her excitement and said, "Who the devil is that?"

"It's Strawberry Shortcake!"

"Is she **supposed** to look that way?"

Molly had elbowed him a little bit but then looked embarrassed and put the blanket back. "I know, I'm being all...girly about things. It's just really, really nice to be excited about something."

"Don't feel bad about it Molly, you deserve to be excited. It shouldn't be a special occasion."

She walked a little bit further down the aisle but she had that expression on her face, the one she got where she was organizing her thoughts so they didn't get mixed up between her brain and her mouth. Finally, she said, "I'm just glad all of us can be here for the baby. When John got hurt, and everything before, when I had to tell him what I'd done, I didn't know if we were ever going to be alright again. Then you got sick, which made Jamie so upset, and that horrible man that Sherlock is trying to find...there just wasn't anything good, for so long. But my little girl is going to be a good thing, and I'm just very glad that my family is together for it, and that Sherlock is here too, and you. I don't know what I'd do without any of you...oh, crap, I'm crying now. It's my hormones, they're all mucked up. I'm sorry."

He did the tasteful, gentlemanly thing, which was not to mention it and just let her sort herself out and then smile politely when she was done and act like nothing had happened. They did not say anything he remembered for awhile after that, but the next time she picked up something she liked, Mycroft had told her in no uncertain terms that he was buying it for her.

"Oh it's too expensive."

"Molly, I am an adult. I am not allowed to drink, I am not allowed to work, I cannot use my computer because my brother doesn't trust me to not check in on work with it. I have to sleep with my door open in case I get confused and fall out of bed or something else equally silly. I have to fill out workbooks like a school child and I have on my bedside table one of those delightful pill containers with the days of the week on it like an elderly person. I have very few personal freedoms left to me, so if I want to buy every silly pink thing that my dear friend wants, I am going to do it."

His tone was not harsh, just very matter of fact, and Molly had looked a little bit startled but also happy and nodded. "But I can't let you spend that much money on me. You bought me a house, we're even. John wouldn't be happy about it."

"Just tell John that you don't know how much I spent, which is true, because I'm not letting you look at price tags, and I'm not going to remember anyway. Problem solved."

Mycroft remembered that the rest of the day had been spent in a much cheerier, conspiratorial mood. Molly got everything that she had wanted, and truthfully it was not all that much. He was fairly certain he had talked to John about it later and repeated what he had said to Molly, if not in the same words. But that day, it had been a good one for him indeed. For both of them.

So he had known she was having a girl, but he did not, no matter how much he searched, remember that they were going to call her Carolyn.

"I'm sure she'll be beautiful." Mycroft assured Jamie.

"I hope they call soon. You said that babies can take a long time but do you think if we ask they can hurry?"

"Sorry, dearest, who is calling?"

"Mum and Dad, from the hospital. They said they'd call us when there was news. ….you said I didn't have to go sit at the hospital all night because you knew how boring it would be. Don't you remember Dad?"

No, no, no. How much time had he lost now? He had been in the hospital...last month? He thought that it was only last month. Three months, surely, at the most.

"The baby is coming tonight?"

"If it doesn't take forever. It's been four hours already." Jamie said glumly.

Mycroft did the math in his head. He didn't know the details but Molly had not been any more than 8 weeks along when he was in the hospital. He remembered the shopping trip, he remembered a half dozen doctor visits, there had been hours in front of the fireplace talking to Sherlock about who he would need to get in touch with, who would give him good information, who not to trust...he remembered lots of complicated terms like Cerebral Hypoxia and Wernicke-Korsakoff, but surely that was not seven months worth of moments.

"Jamie, is Sherlock here?"

"Yes."

"Be a good lad and go get him for me, would you?"

Jamie was off in a flash and Mycroft sat back, gripping at the fabric of the sofa between his fingers. Seven months...

**AN's: Thanks to everyone who has favorited, alerted and reviews. Let me know what you think so far! ~hrlyqin**


	5. Chapter 5

**A E R I A L S, a Sherlock Fanfiction, by Hrlyqin**

**Chapter Five**

_Please God, let my wife be okay. _

_I know I shouldn't be scared, but there is so much that could happen, and let's be honest, it usually does happen to me. My family has faced more than anyone could be asked to already and it is a miracle we have made it this far. I appreciate that, I do, and I know it might be a lot to ask, but if you could please let my wife and my daughter come out of this alright, I'll do whatever you ask. Promise. _

_Also, if you could strike Molly's mother dead, that would be great. Thank you. _

John lifted his head to see if anyone had been watching him pray, but the waiting room was deserted. Felicity, the mother he had been asking God to smite, was in the ladies room or snacking on the virgin blood of children or something, and there were no other pacing families here at the moment.

He wished Sherlock were here with him. Sherlock would be doing something annoying or demanding attention or saying the most inarticulate, rude things that he would no doubt distract John from worrying like a maniac about everything that could go wrong. It wasn't as if Molly hadn't ever done this before. It wasn't as if women hadn't been doing this for millions of years. But he was still scared to death. John Watson, able to face down mad bombers, bank robbers and criminal masterminds without a second thought, floored and terrified by the act of childbirth. He was practically shaking.

Alright, so, he'd just imagine Sherlock was here. He pictured the slim frame of his friend, the superior posture, the slightly petulant but deeply thoughtful gaze, pale skin, hair of a school boy, big coat, cheekbones. What would he be talking about? Footprint analysis? How cigar ash differs from cigarette ash? String theory? His theories on whatever happened to Pluto...no, wait, solar system, never mind...no, Sherlock would be talking about all the things John was worrying about, but then John would be arguing with him about it, instead of worrying. Then Sherlock would get to the point where he was losing the argument and, because Sherlock is Sherlock, he would say something outrageous to end the conversation or at least change the subject. Lately, that had been, he was pretty sure, making advances on John. Not, physical advances, he hadn't thrown him up against any bed posts, but he had been saying little things, like a girl says when she wants you to know she is interested but didn't want to just say it outright. John had never called him on it, because it could be just that Sherlock was kidding, or that he was doing it on purpose as some kind of mental experiment, or doing it simply to be annoying. So he thought it best to just ignore the phase until it passed. John had always made it fairly clear to Sherlock that he was heterosexual, thank you, so it wasn't as if Sherlock expected anything to happen, and if he wasn't doing it with any kind of hope of a..._hook up_...then there must be another reason.

Besides, he'd known Sherlock for about 7 years now. Mrs. Hudson had repeatedly tried to fix him up, including this latest thing with the downstairs neighbor, without any luck. Clients had hit on him, they did it a lot, in fact, also without any success. If Sherlock had sex he did it so discreetly John had no idea who with, so he guessed that even teasingly flirting with someone was progress, and John supposed Sherlock didn't have any other friends, really, so his options were limited.

God he must be at the end of his rope if he was even thinking about any of this. Absolute mental exhaustion. He had reached his capacity for worry and was now experiencing some blue screen of death for his cohesive thoughts. These were crazy person thoughts. Now he had a headache.

And look, here comes Felicity. Yippee.

"Any news?" she asked, sitting down with a cup of coffee, or blood. She hadn't brought any for John.

"Not yet, no."

"Well let's just hope it's a nice easy birth, although really, at Molly's age, not much chance of that."

John winced at the verbal slice but didn't say anything, just smiled blandly.

"Although it's not really like she had much of a choice, she waited long enough to get married. She's lucky she was able to land you. A doctor! Quite a catch for someone like her."

John nodded.

Felicity sipped her coffee (or blood, still not quite sure) and continued since John hadn't objected yet. "She was always such a nervous child. Twisting her hair, biting her nails, itching or scratching at something. I told her a million times not to be such a picker but did she listen? No. I offered to send her away to school, maybe Switzerland or California, somewhere that people are more sophisticated, to fix all of her little quirks, but no, she wanted to get a _real education_." She snorted. "As if that was going to help her. I really hope that you and I can make sure Carolyn doesn't wind up like that, a bookworm that no man will want."

John's grip on the chair tightened.

"She's a step ahead at least, not being a bastard."

Something, it might have been the flimsy chair arm, it very well might have been John's fragile mental state, snapped. "**I Beg Your Pardon**?"

"I said, at least she's not a bastard." Felicity replied, raising her voice as she repeated herself as if maybe John hadn't heard her right. "Jamie's never going to live that one down, the poor little lamb."

"My son is not a poor little lamb, Felicity." John said clearly.

"Oh John, it's really kind of you to say that. You've always treated him like your own. Molly should be grateful."

"She...do you even hear yourself sometimes?"

"Excuse me?" she blinked.

"Do you even hear yourself? Do you listen to what you are saying? Do you actually understand the words coming out of your mouth? **I know** rude people, I know the rudest people ever, but I don't think even they would speak that way about their own child. I'm certainly never going to talk that way about my daughter, because she is going to be perfect to me, no matter what. Just like Molly is, and like she should be to you. You have a lot of nerve to sit here and go on and on and on about her problems when obviously, her biggest one is you."

The older woman's mouth dropped open. "Well, I never."

"Yeah I bet you haven't, and here's another thing, if you ever, **ever** call my son a bastard again, I am going to grab a stake and drive it right into your fucking heart, you...you **sea hag**."

Carefully, moving slowly, Felicity set down her coffee cup on the small endtable next to her. Then she rose, equally slowly, keeping her eyes on John the entire time. She looked fearful that he might leap at her and start ripping her hair out or choking her or something. "You know," she said, in a voice that suggested she had dog shit smeared right under her nose, "I don't think I'm really needed here. I'm sure Molly and the baby will be tired and have lots of other visitors. Perhaps you could just have her call me when she feels up to it."

She then turned with incredible purpose and left, walking with her legs squeezed together. John watched her go, felt bad for about thirty seconds, and then started laughing hysterically. A distraction exactly like that, yes, that was what he had needed. He got out his phone and sent a text to Sherlock.

_I just sent Molly's mum back to whatever circle of hell she's from. Think I'll get in trouble for it? -JW_

After a few minutes, the reply came.

_Brave Sir John has slain the dragon. The lady will be pleased. Jamie wants to know if there's any news. -SH_

_None yet, and Jamie should be asleep. -JW _

_Should be and is are two concepts very far removed from one another John. We'll be awake. -SH _

_Want to play Words with Friends while I wait? -JW _

_I'll win. I can get Toby to play you if you'd like. -SH _

_Either one will do. See you there in a minute -JW _

True to his prediction, Sherlock did win. Then again, he had help. While Jamie was playing with Toby on what Mycroft kept reminding them was the good carpet, Sherlock got his brother's assistance with the game. It allowed him to watch the older man closely, Mycroft seemed much calmer now and he didn't switch off for any period of time that Sherlock noticed.

"So, any news on the warfront?" Mycroft asked casually.

"You know you're not supposed to ask."

"You can give me general news without causing another cardiac event. I assure you."

"I'm not telling you anything."

"Sherlock..."

"Nothing."

"Well, I'm happy that you think you can fill my shoes so easily, but you realize I do have a few year's experience and that my advice might be somewhat helpful."

"Do I strike you as someone who needs advice, Mycroft?"

"**Desperately."** Mycroft replied.

Alright, in all fairness, Sherlock had left the door wide open for that. But he wasn't going to say a word. Mycroft didn't need to know anything, and more than that, he didn't need to know of the lack of anything. He definitely did not need to know how their current nemesis had all but melted into thin air or that with so many years of completely eluding any sort of blemish, it seemed to be something he was good at. Sherlock had also ascertained through body language, word choice and observation that Mattigan, the agency in general and perhaps the entire government were considering shutting Mycroft out entirely as he was now a brain damaged liability. If Mycroft thought he might not be able to return to his work, he would give up entirely and Sherlock would never be free of him. That was just simply something he couldn't have, so he said not a word, and it drove his brother crazy.

Sherlock's watch began beeping. "It's time for your medication."

After Mycroft took his pills, he dropped the subject of work as Sherlock had hoped he would. Jamie served as the best instrument in this as the child began quizzing them about the road that lay ahead.

"When Mum and Dad come home, I'm going to be a big brother. Is it hard to do?"

"Not in the least." Sherlock muttered.

"It can be difficult, but it is also rewarding." Mycroft answered over him.

"What do you mean, 'rewarding'?"

"Well, as the older child, you will have some responsibility for your sister. It will be your job to help her in anything that she cannot talk to Molly or John about, to protect her until she is wise enough to protect herself, and most of all, to be an example to her."

Sherlock snorted loudly.

"Something to add, Sherlock?"

"No." He coughed. "Nothing."

"Is Father right, Uncle Sherlock?" Jamie asked.

Again, Mycroft spoke over him. "Well, he really wouldn't know, he's never been a big brother."

"I almost was." Sherlock said quickly, just to vex Mycroft. He regretted the statement before it even fully left his lips, because he knew that he would need to explain it now, and that John would be upset with him.

Sure enough, Jamie asked him what he meant.

"I was almost a big brother. Our mother was going to have another baby, but...she didn't." he finished indelicately. Mycroft was shooting daggers at him right now. He could feel it, even though he couldn't see it.

"Did she change her mind?"

"No, she got sick."

"Oh." Jamie considered this. Sherlock could see the thoughts on his face as clearly as if he were reading his mind. He was trying to figure out what 'she got sick' actually meant, but his limited knowledge of the world did not readily offer anything up. He considered how much morning sickness Molly had and wondered if Sherlock's mother had somehow vomited the baby up, then dismissed it as a silly idea. He finally reached the conclusion that if Sherlock, who indulged him in most of his whims, wouldn't answer than it must be something he wasn't ready to know and 'one of those grown-up things' like sex that he would figure out later. His mind having worked though the technical parts of the problem then moved onto the emotional aspects. Sherlock, and Mycroft, noted all of this with approval.

"Do you think you would have been a good big brother?"

This time Mycroft snorted. Sherlock's replied that he didn't think he had the patience for it.

"But I'm sure you'll be a wonderful big brother." Mycroft added.

"Ok. Can I have some jello?"

"Yes! Let's all have jello. You too Sherlock. Jello break...alright, we'll bring one to you."

Mycroft let Jamie lead him to the kitchen for jello. As scientific as Mycroft's brain was, as many complex problems as he had tackled, he did not in the least understand jello. What was its purpose? Even with his current mental problems, he was quite certain he had never approved of this bizarre, wobbly snack treat. But Jamie liked it, and Jamie liked to share things with the people he loved, so he allowed the boy to give him a cup of red jiggly goo while Jamie had a cup of blue jiggly goo. When they brought Sherlock a cup of green jiggly goo, they found him on his phone again. He cleared his throat loudly and started to read his last text message.

"Carolyn Enola Watson. 2.8 Kilograms, 27 centimeters. Ten toes, nine fingers and two thumbs. Everyone is doing okay. Pictures soon...Enola?" He wrinkled his nose and Mycroft shrugged in response.

Jamie rushed over to trade jello for phone, which he snatched out of Sherlock's hand but in all fairness Sherlock allowed to be snatched. He hit the button for John's number and ran into the hallway to talk to him.

"I'm feeling fine, since you asked." Mycroft said.

"If you weren't, you would have said something." Sherlock replied.

"You'd be a bit jarred too, if you just lost seven months like a sock in the dryer."

"You didn't lose them Mycroft, you just don't remember them, and don't use laundry metaphors with me please."

"Fine, if you realized that your memories made up seven months instead of three. It's like someone has smashed an hourglass, and the sand is just slipping through my fingers."

"Spare me your poetry."

"Sherlock, I am trying to have a conversation with you."

"Yes, and I'm trying to ignore your attempts."

"But, you stay here, you make sure I take my medicine, babysit me, hide all the sharp objects and so on. Surely you must care about my condition."

"Good God do you have to be so obtuse?" Sherlock shouted before remembering Jamie and lowering his voice. "I'm here. Like you said, I make sure you keep on your pills, I'm stopping any fun revolutions from happening until you get back on your feet, is that not enough? do we have to have to hug and have a moment?"

"You'd rather by anywhere else, wouldn't you?"

"I'd rather be **out there**, doing the leg work, running down James Beecher like a dog. But I can't, because I am here with you, where I can play at being useful but we both know that they aren't going to catch him."

"I'm sorry." Mycroft said quietly.

"Don't be sorry, just..." He growled, a frustrated noise, and shook his hands through his hair. "Just get better, please, for everyone."

"I'll do my best."


	6. Chapter 6

** S, a Sherlock Fanfiction, by Hrlyqin**

**Chapter Six**

John was, as Sherlock had predicted, impossible to deal with now. Every time that Sherlock attempted to talk to him about a case, or James Beecher, or anything at all, it was an endless litany of remarks about Carolyn. Sherlock would tell John about a pair of severed hands that washed up on shore and John would tell Sherlock how Carolyn already knew what fingers were. It was maddening. There had been a picqueristic rapist running around the London Underground for two weeks and when Sherlock tried to enlist John's help, his best friend had told him that he couldn't go right then, he had a Daddy and Me class.

**A Daddy and Me class. **

If it was at all possible to actually injure oneself rolling your eyes, Sherlock was quite sure he had done it when he had angrily thrown his phone across the room after that conversation.

Sherlock supposed it was some kind of sick justice for how engaged he himself had been after Jamie was born, but that was entirely different. There were so many unknown factors, so many tests he wanted to run, he had needed to get blood samples and stool samples and skin samples, and then there had been the endless IQ tests and psychological examinations. Jamie had been an enormous mystery. He still was, truth be told. Certainly, right now he was an obedient, intelligent boy who showed enormous resilience and bravery. But he was also just a child. There was no telling what traits might show themselves later in life. Sherlock could also watch Jamie and pinpoint clearly what was Molly (his annoying need to try and 'fix' people emotionally, his dogged loyalty, love of animals, etc) and what was Moriarty. It was fascinating. Also, he loved Jamie.

But Carolyn, she was just this...lump. An uninteresting lump. Sherlock had spent days in her presence and could report the full run of her activities: she ate, she shat, she slept. Repeat. He just didn't understand what John found so compelling. He supposed that made him a horrible friend, possibly a horrible person, but it was the truth. Babies were boring.

He had, with an inordinate amount of maneuvering, managed to get John to come over and look over some resumes with him. Sherlock was currently sprawled across Mycroft's good couch, with his feet on Mycroft's coffee table, reading one while John was sitting politely in the chair across from him looking at another. He had not mentioned Carolyn in twelve minutes. Sherlock was keeping track.

"This one looks good, lots of experience with dementia, that wouldn't be a bad thing."

"What's the name?"

"Um..." John had to go back a page or two and check, "Mary Sutherland."

"No. She steals from her clients. Look at the font she used."

"Alright. We'll put that in the 'no' pile then." John answered slowly, trying and failing to figure out Sherlock's deduction. The stack of rejects was getting large.

"How about Laura Lyons?"

"Nymphomaniac. We want to limit Mycroft's stimulation, not..."

"Stimulate it? Yeah, I get that. It couldn't be that you're being a little bit picky since this is your brother's well-being you're talking about."

"As someone in the healthcare field, I think you would appreciate the need to be 'picky'. You better than anyone know the stories about personal care aides leaving their clients tied to beds, draining their bank accounts, molesting them."

"And heaven forbid someone try to molest Mycroft."

"It's a big decision. Maybe it was a mistake asking for your help. Maybe I should just select someone at random and let the chips fall where they may." Sherlock finished his sentence with a shrug, as if to say that he couldn't care less either way.

"No." John said with resignation. "You're right." He flipped through a few more candidates before asking what he should have when Sherlock invited him over. "Why are you hiring a caregiver for Mycroft in the first place?"

That elicited another shrug. "His mental state is improving, his medication regime is more or less set, he is getting better. I, on the other hand, am stagnating. So is the hunt for James Beecher. I need the freedom to move around, at least for a few days at a time."

"Sherlock..."

"A _few days_, John. You cannot begrudge me the occasional weekend if it helps keep your family safe."

"Alright, alright, fine. Here, look at this one." He slid the papers across the coffee table to Sherlock, who glanced before dismissing it and moving back to his own stack of potentials. He and John read silently before Sherlock finally deemed one acceptable. He folded the first sheet into a paper airplane and sent it sailing over to John.

"What do you think?"

"Lots of experience, lots of references. Long term assignments, which is good. It says she was a secretary after university, which means she won't mind the way Mycroft tends to treat everyone like they're his assistant. Her rates seem a bit high but that's not really a problem. I'd interview her."

"Excellent. Give me the number." Sherlock got his phone out.

John read him the number and when the candidate answered the phone, Sherlock put on his best sane-and-harmless act while he spoke to her, wandering in and out of the room. "Hello, Miss Morstan? Sherlock Holmes here, I was looking at your resume in regards to my brother..."

.

.

.

After a thorough 'degovernmenting' of the house, Sherlock hired the woman to help him keep after Mycroft. With Mycroft's mental state improving, he was easier to reason with about this being necessary, and he seemed to like the idea of relying on an employee at this point instead of his brother. It didn't hurt that said employee was a young woman with a large smile and a larger bosom. When Sherlock did a test run by spending the night in the hotel, he returned the next morning to find Mycroft eating crepes and telling the PCA a story about his brief fascination with cricket during his teens. She appeared to be hanging on every word and at the same time making sure Mycroft didn't forget to take his morning pills.

Yes, this would work just fine.

After such a successful trial, Sherlock could put the next phase of his plan into action. He needed to return to Beecher's house in Reichenbach. Yes, the police had been through there. Local, federal, international. Morons. Sherlock was convinced that if he could go through each room, touch each object, read each paper, he would find some sort of clue as to where the man had gone to. There simply had to be something there. Some kind of clue. Something that had been missed.

He was going this weekend. He had maps, photographs and video footage, as well as every agency's files on Beecher and Moriarty. He had to admire that he had sent a text message and gotten this all in an hour, delivered by a leggy redheaded woman who was very familiar with Mycroft's house. So many of the people in Mycroft's employ seemed to share the traits of young, sexual women who were very close to their boss.

Wait.

Sherlock rewound.

Familiar with the house.

Yes, that was it. What he really needed was someone who had been in the house in Switzerland with either of the brothers, who could tell him where they lingered, where their eyes wandered to, maybe even reveal that if you tipped this candlestick forward it revealed a hidden passage. He would need to be as quick as possible, and it would help to have access to that sort of inside knowledge.

But not to worry, he had a plan for that too.

.

.

.

You never really could tell about people.

One minute, Sherlock was tossing himself dramatically around the sofa, complaining about the burden of caring for Mycroft, the next he was hiring an aide and even offering to watch Jamie so Molly and John could have some time with just Carolyn. It was nice. It was strange.

But he had a whole afternoon of memories to keep with him, they had gone to the park and Carolyn had seen what a duck was for the first time. Molly quacked at her and John had gotten a mess of photos with his phone. He couldn't wait to show Sherlock, even if he knew his friend wouldn't really be interested.

He hadn't met Mycroft's aide face to face before but when a pretty woman in pink scrubs opened the door, appearing unarmed and friendly, he guessed that was who it was. She regarded him a bit suspiciously, even if it was in a polite way, which improved John's opinion of her. She kept her hand inside the door near the panic button on the alarm system while asking him "Can I help you with something?"

Her teeth were even and white when she smiled. A predator's smile. Or a model's. It was a little bit dazzling. John blinked. "Yes, sorry. I'm here to pick up Jamie."

"Oh! You must be John. Mr. Holmes said you would come by. I'm Mary." she held out her hand and shook his. "I work with Mycroft."

He nodded. He had seen her resume. He remembered. It hadn't mentioned her smile. A phantom of Molly popped up on his shoulder and reminded him that he was a married man and that he didn't need to spend so long talking to pretty strangers.

"Is Jamie ready to go?"

"He's not here." she looked confused.

John blinked again. "What do you mean, he's not here?"

"He and Mr. Holmes left about an hour ago...I'm sorry, I thought he had spoken with you already."

"What...he...no, he didn't...what do you mean, he's not here?" John repeated. He was blinking a lot now, not because of a woman but because he suddenly didn't seem to be getting enough air. He stumbled a little bit and wound up sitting on the step. "Not here...going to kill him..."

Just then, John's phone buzzed gleefully to let him know that he had received a text message. He saw it was from Sherlock and hoped for an elaborate explanation involving an emergency, or alien abduction, or something.

But no, the text he was reading was exactly four words long.

_I need an assistant. - SH_


	7. Chapter 7

** S, a Sherlock Fanfiction, by Hrlyqin**

**Chapter Seven**

"Oh no, I am going to...I am going to bloody, no, I am going to fucking kill him." John said angrily, all but crushing his phone in his hand as he got to his feet, staggering and nearly blind with rage. "MYCROFT! I know this is your fault too!"

He turned towards the door, determined to get inside and box the hell out of Mycroft, who was the closest Holmes available. Maybe he could even knock some sense into him. Ha! But he found his path of destruction blocked by a cute little blond who smiled at him in that way that you smile at the truly unbalanced. "Mr. Watson, why don't you just take a breath and calm down."

"No I won't just calm down. That idiot has taken my son. How did he even get his passport? He must have planned this! Don't you see?" he asked, trying to sound reasonable but still yes, shouting a bit. "This is what they do, these Holmes-es-es. They just go ahead and do what they think is best and never mind if it is stupid or dangerous, especially for a small boy. MYCROFT! I'm going to smite you!"

"Mr. Watson." said Mary again, firmly. "Mycroft is sleeping. He has pills for that so you can shout all you want, he won't wake up and you'll only make yourself look more like a lunatic. Okay?"

"But, my son-"

"Jamie is with Mr. Holmes. I can see you're upset about that. You don't think he's safe. Why don't you call and check on him?"

"Call?" John asked, confused in his anger. His mind was thinking hitsmashmurderkilldestroy so the thought of using his phone didn't process too well.

"You can call Mr. Holmes and ask to speak with Jamie. Right?"

"I...could."

"But, if everything is fine, which I'm sure it is, you don't want to upset Jamie by being so angry when you talk, right?"

"I guess so." he answered hesitantly.

"So let's calm down. Take a minute and just breathe. No one needs to shout anymore."

And with that he was defeated.

John sat back on the step while Mary went to get him a glass of water. He pretended not to hear and not to care that she locked the front door when she went in, and undoubtedly made a phone call to someone in case John really did murder Mycroft. She came back out and sat down on the step next to him, handing him the water.

"Feel better?" she asked brightly.

"No, just less like killing." He drank half the glass in small sips, breathed, then drank the other half. "Thank you." he said, handing it back to her.

"No problem." She patted his knee. It was a familiar gesture that was not exactly appropriate but she didn't do it in an inappropriate way. "I'm sure everything is okay."

"Yeah, I'm just going to call now."

"Good luck." she told him before disappearing inside with the empty glass.

John, being fully aware that he had been smote, was impressed. Years of dealing with people who didn't want to do what they needed to do had honed her skills to razor sharpness. She might actually survive the combination of Mycroft and Sherlock.

The packaging wasn't half bad either.

But no, he was angry. Mustn't be distracted. He dialed Sherlock's number and swore that he really would kill him if he didn't answer.

He did, on the second ring, his voice all velvety self-assurance. "Hello John."

"Sherlock, let me speak to Jamie."

"Of course, he's-"

"I don't care. Just let me speak to him. Now."

He pressed his lips together and waited until Jamie came on the line.

"Hi Dad!"

"Hello Jamie. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, better than fine. This is super! On the airplane I got all the cookies I wanted, and then I pretended to throw a temper tantrum. Uncle Sherlock said it would help us get through security and I don't know about that but it was fun! Then, I got to help Uncle Sherlock break a windo- I mean, then, when we got here, the window was already broken, absolutely 100% broken already." He stopped speaking only when he seemed to run out of breath. John listened and progressively covered his mouth, his eyes and then his entire face with his hand.

But he tried to sound mellow when he told Jamie, "That's great kid. Can you please put Sherlock back on the phone?"

"Sure Dad. I love you!"

John told him he loved him too and then went back to the lip pursing while the phone was passed back. He knew Sherlock was holding it now because while he didn't say hello, he could hear him breathing. John kept his voice low, hopefully Jamie wouldn't hear most of this.

"Sherlock I don't know what you are thinking but this is not alright. Can you comprehend how not alright this is? What am I supposed to tell Molly? You have the emotional depth of keyboard cat, did anyone ever tell you that? I swear to god...Why did you...how could you have even thought that this would be okay with me? You could get shot, or stabbed, or burnt to death, then what happens to Jamie? And you're housebreaking now? Great. Excellent role model. I will not have you turn my son into a juvenile delinquent just because you're bored. You will have Jamie home in two days. No argument. You will never speak to Molly about this. No argument. You will owe me for the rest of your life, and even when you are dead, you'll still owe me. No argument. If you are not standing here, where I am, in 48 hours, I will hunt you down and I will shoot you in the testicle. So decide if you like your right one or your left one better and don't muck this up."

After 81 seconds of silence, Sherlock asked him, "Are you done?"

"Yes."

"Then I will see you in two days."

Sherlock hung up the phone and he stuffed it back into his pocket. He would text John later. After seven hours, he would have had sufficient time to calm down. He would have also spoken to Molly already, which would make him complicit and thus more understanding. Sherlock would once again do that delicate male dance of saying things without really saying them at all until John believed that he was sorry and really only had been trying to do what's best. That was how things worked between them and it was a pattern Sherlock knew well.

"Was Dad angry?" Jamie asked while they went back to the business of pulling up the carpet.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because he's an idiot." Sherlock answered.

"Hey! He is not!"

"Right. Sorry. John is not an idiot, but he is idiotic about his family. Everyone is. He thinks that you might get hurt and can't believe that I was irresponsible enough to do something like this."

"What do you think?"

Sherlock thought carefully about how to answer. "I think that I need an assistant and John's busy with the baby right now."

"He's _always_ busy with the baby." Jamie commiserated.

They finished yanking up the carpet but found nothing interesting underneath it. Bugs, glue, more bugs and several hairpins. They moved on from the ground up, starting with the lowest drawers in the file cabinet. Jamie's small hands could reach inside the corners and underneath the shelves to make sure there was nothing hidden there, while Sherlock handled examining and reading the documents he was certain the police had only glanced at. Undoubtedly, when they words 'super secret crime lab' hadn't jumped out at them, they'd have moved on to the next one.

Another hour into the search, Jamie asked why this guy was so hard for everyone to find. Again, Sherlock considered the question before replying.

"The man that your Father tossed off the cliff, he and this man were brothers. Probably very similar in some ways, both very intelligent, both very cunning, both with a matched set of psychological disorders. But they approached life entirely differently. Moriarty, he was theater, he was brilliance. Everything he did was planned down to the slightest minute possibility. He had maps and files and data on everything and no doubt he rehearsed his parts endlessly. Things had to be flawless. He became the schemes and he immersed himself in them, until there was nothing left but the criminal mastermind. But Beecher, everything we've found says that Beecher was an upstanding citizen and a respected member of the community. The only explanation is that he split his life up, spending half of it as the good James Beecher and the other half as a depraved murdered. So he got very good at hiding what he was, and since he no doubt made sure to commit his crimes far from home, he must have bolt holes across the globe, connections we can't even guess at."

"So, who everybody thinks he is isn't really who he is. Sort of like Batman!"

It was Sherlock's turn to cover his face with his hand for a moment. "Yes Jamie, sort of like Batman."

After that point, Sherlock decided that he would leave the more delicate issues at hand unexplained. Jamie stayed a loyal assistant, moving things and getting into small spots and looking up everything he could lift up. Sherlock busied himself at Beecher's computer while Jamie kept poking around. He was determined to read every word of every document because he was so certain the police hadn't, but after awhile even his eyes started to go cross. He was not going to admit that John was right on any point whatsoever but he may have lost track of Jamie at some point and could only hear distant bangs and thumps.

"JAMIE!" he called out.

"Yeah?" Jamie shouted back, from somewhere above him.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah! I found something cool!"

Sherlock all but bolted out of the room and up the stairs. He kept calling back and forth to Jamie until he found him.

The disappointment must have been clear on his face.

Jamie's great discovery was not a map to the super secret lair, or a hidden room, or even a blood pistol. No. Although to be fair, a waterbed was pretty cool to a six year old.

The boy was currently rolling around on it, giggling. The consulting detective's assistant, hard at work.

"Uncle Sherlock, you've got to try this." He rolled over and over again.

"No thank you Jamie."

"But it's fun. It'd be really great except stuff keeps poking me."

"Yes well sometimes when adults love each other very much but are unable to biologically fulfill each other's needs, they use instruments to...nevermind. Get off the bed Jamie."

The child obeyed, giving one more full roll across the mattress and then joining Sherlock back in the office. It was not until hours later when they were back in the hotel that Sherlock suddenly jumped up like he had been struck by lightening.

"Oh god. Of course! Idiot. Jamie even told me!"

"WhatdidItellyou?" asked Jamie, who was more than half asleep.

"Jamie, get up. Get dressed. We're going back to the house."

"Nuh-uh. Sleepy."

"Now, we need to go now. Come on."

"Nuh-uh." Jamie repeated, turning over in an effort to shut Sherlock out.

"Fine, stay here. Don't blame me if the closet monster pays a visit while I'm gone."

That got Jamie out of bed and moving, Sherlock having to get him dressed and put his shoes on for him because he simply wasn't going fast enough. By the time they got back inside Beecher's house, it was Sherlock that was leaping up and down like an excited child and Jamie who was merely trudging along. The dark haired man took the stairs three at a time until he got to the bedroom where he drew out his pocket knife triumphantly and started slaying the water bed.

Only after it was deflated, water running all over the carpet and undoubtedly leaking through the floor, could Sherlock fully rip open the mattress sack to see what was inside. He knew it would be something, but he didn't even try to disguise his glee at what he found.

There were six packets, sealed waterproof bags the size of a sandwich. Each one contained all the minutiae of an identity – credit cards, visas, official identification, cellular phones, the works. There was no telling how many were missing but what truly made Sherlock feel triumphant is that it was obviously the work of the same person. It could be Beecher himself. If it was, this was another dead end. But if someone had made these for Beecher, and Sherlock could trace them, they might have more information about which identities were missing. Sherlock could even try to compare these documents to known forgers to get an idea of Beecher's network.

In other words, this was a clue.

**A/Ns: Thanks everyone for sticking with this and for all of the favorites/alerts for Aerials. I would love some more reviews. Let me know what you think! -hrlyqin**


	8. Chapter 8

**AERIALS – a fanfiction by Hrlyqin – Chapter 8**

Exactly 48 hours later, John Watson was standing in front of Mycroft's house. He was here. His son and his self absorbed, egotistical, irresponsible idiot best friend were not. He was giving them five more minutes, exactly five, and then he was going to call the police...or the fire brigade...Interpol...the goddamned Queen, if he decided to, but he was going to raise a bloody ruckus to someone.

Stupid, attractive Mary with her sparkly smile popped her head out of the door again, as she had seven times since he arrived, and asked if he wouldn't want to wait inside. She said Mycroft would be glad to have some company. Mycroft would not be glad to have John's company right now. Even if Mycroft hadn't known what Sherlock was doing, even if he had no part in it, John was going to claw off someone's balls right now and he didn't want it to be Mycroft's. Molly would never forgive him. So no, he would just wait outside.

He checked his watch.

He paced the front length of the house and back, then he checked his watch again. Two more minutes.

With all of Sherlock's behavior over the years, it was a miracle John hadn't had a heart attack too, he thought. Man was determined to put everyone that cared about him in the ground.

60 seconds.

At last, John saw a cab coming up the drive. He could see Sherlock and Jamie in the backseat. Sherlock bent his head and whispered something to Jamie and the boy nodded back. When the car pulled up in front of John, Jamie jumped out and threw himself at John, wrapping his arms around John's legs and yelling "Dad!"

In his mind, he heard Sherlock whispering _'Okay, there's your Dad, he looks angry. I'm going to need your help with this Jamie. When we pull up, make it a good show' _But he ignored it and picked up his boy and hugged his close for a minute with an angry, exhausted, relieved grunt before setting him down again. "Missed you sport."

"Missed you too Dad."

"Did you have a good time?"

"It was the best!"

"Okay, good then."

Sherlock had waited for the appropriate pleasantries to be exchanged before he said abruptly, "Jamie, go inside."

Without argument, Jamie took his bag and went inside. Sherlock had not had a chance to send his well-worded apology text message. He recognized that John was angry with him. When John got angry, he was vocal about it. As soon as the boy was in the house, Sherlock started to speak before John could.

"I recognize that you are mad, John, you've made it very clear. I know that you were worried and you have not slept. Your shirt collar tells me that you didn't even bother to go to bed last night. I have also with my actions made you lie to Molly, which makes you even angrier with me, even though I neither told you nor asked you to lie. I am prepared for the full brunt of your verbal blustering, but before you begin, let me say this: I have a lead."

"On Beecher? You have a lead on Beecher?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Right...don't care."

"John-"

"You took my son, Sherlock! You thought it was okay, he thinks it was a great adventure, everyone is home safe, I get that. But he could have been hurt...or killed...or worse, and it would have been your fault. Then what would you tell me? Is a lead worth Jamie's safety?"

"In this case, yes."

"I don't believe-"

"Yes John, you do. This is entirely in line with my normal behavior so there is no reason to disbelieve it. Now, come inside, let Mary feed Jamie cookies or whatever it is women do and let me show you what I found."

John opened his mouth, intending to argue, but Sherlock was already going inside. He should have left, just taken Jamie and gone home, that would have shown him. But, with a sigh of resignation, he simply followed Sherlock inside and watched him flap his hands at Mary and Jamie before he walked upstairs. The pair did not speak or pause until they were in what Sherlock was using as a bedroom and the door was closed behind them.

John could reason that Sherlock did not want Mycroft listening to their conversation so the bedroom was a good choice, but the discomfort of being in Sherlock's room, with his bed, in the middle of the day, for no clear reason, set in with John and he felt the need to make small talk. "This is very...you." he said, looking around.

"What does that mean?" Sherlock asked as he dumped his bag out onto the bed.

John picked up a dirty shirt from where it was flung over the back of a chair. He turned it over to see splatters of what looked like, and smelled like, blood across the chest. He was going to comment on this being what he meant when Sherlock, who had his back turned, snapped at him that he was ruining the experiment and John dropped the shirt onto the floor.

"Very you. So you said you had some kind of clue?"

"Not some kind, John, a clue. The first real clue." Finding what he was looking for in the pile of clothing/notebooks/electronics, he snatched it up and threw it behind him. John just barely caught the bundle as it sailed past.

"What's this...passport, credit cards, so it's a fake identity? Great, let's track him down. What are we waiting for?"

Sherlock chortled. "Obviously, there was more than one. There were several."

"Oh."

"It's still an important clue."

"Oh."

"You don't see why."

"...Not in the least."

"We now know by what means he is staying hidden so well. He has simply become someone else. There was minor visual differences in the appearance of each identity so he is skilled in stage makeup. The same items make up each identity, number of credit cards, passport stamps, amount of cash, so they were clearly assembled by the same person and they are exceptionally good forgeries. So we can conclude that either Beecher himself made them, meaning that he himself is a master forger who spent years perfecting his skills or that he has employed such a person. Now it is plausible that Beecher made these, but nothing we have seen of his behavior leads me to believe that he has the personality of a forger. Besides, look at the pictures we have of him, have you seen his shoes? So far more likely, he has one person he relies on to manufacture his persona based on specific requests. Maybe we can find this person, get them to talk, get something, anything...it's a start John, don't you see?"

"I...guess so." John said, not sharing his friend's enthusiasm. "It's not much though. Not exactly a smoking gun."

"When have we ever come across a smoking gun?"

"Uh...Sri Lanka?"

"Alright, besides that? John, this is important. I swear. I'm going to devote all of my considerable mental efforts towards finding this forger and let some of Mycroft's people track these other identities and see if anything comes about."

Sherlock huffed a little bit as he finished talking and John could tell that his friend was put out because he was alone in his enthusiasm. Sherlock right now was like a cat who had delivered a dead bird to their owner and didn't understand why they weren't being praised. The raw need to have his genius appreciated, his break in the case lauded, was apparent on his face. As angry as John was, and he was still angry, about the whole business with Jamie, he couldn't look at that need and just ignore it. He forced a smile and admitted, "You're right, it's something. More than anyone else has found."

"Exactly why I should be the one working on the case, not...delegating it." Sherlock replied, speaking those last few words as if they tasted bad in his mouth.

"Well you've got Mary here now, you can have a little more freedom. Just don't abandon Mycroft entirely, please Sherlock?" His tone, if not his words, reminded Sherlock how very non-homicidal John was being about 'the Jamie thing' and how grateful he should be for that fact. Sherlock had to give a little bit back and nod and make promises that no, he wasn't going to abandon Mycroft.

"Although, if you want to leave him a bit more, maybe Mary will need some help, medical things..."

"Maybe she will call upon you some dark and stormy night and you can run to her rescue, where she will offer her supple nude body to you in reward?" Sherlock concluded. "You could be a bit more subtle, John."

"It's not like that."

"It's precisely like that. You lust after her. So does Mycroft. I can't understand why."

"There's just something." John shrugged. "Don't worry, I'm not about to start an affair with the help. Wife at home. Daughter at home. I'm very happy with them both."

"Talking to you is becoming boring. You can go now." Sherlock said dismissively.

"O...kay then. I'll see you later. Still angry."

"I found a clue. Your argument is invalid."

John shrugged and shook his head and then left. He wasn't sure why but he shut the door behind him as he went. He wasn't more than 10 steps away before he ran smack into Mary coming down the hallway.

"Oh god, sorry! Are you okay?" He had her by the elbow, making sure she didn't tip over. He really had smashed into her.

"Yeah, fine. I've been blindsided by men before." she laughed and smiled, passing it all off as fine. Stupid her for doing that so charmingly, John thought. "You haven't seen Jamie, have you?"

"What, have we lost him again already?" he had to smile and joke too.

"No, we were just playing hide and seek, I wasn't sure how long you would be, and I guess I'm not a very good seeker. I asked Mycroft and he said he hasn't seen him at all."

"Why don't I help you look?"

"Has Sherlock maybe...?"

"No, I just left him, he's busy sulking. Have you tried the pantry?"

John led Mary away from Sherlock's room and Sherlock's comments echoing in his head. It wasn't like that, it really wasn't. Mary was just a friendly, normal person in the sea of strangeness his life had become. He loved Molly. He was allowed to be attracted to other people. Nothing would happen. He repeated these things in his head, going round in a loop, every time that Mary had to bend down or stoop or squeeze by while they searched the house. When they finally found Jamie (inside the bathroom cabinet), John was exhausted from the mental efforts. He said a quick 'hello, goodbye, like to kill you in the morning' to Mycroft and headed home to take a cold shower and pass out.

But instead of a peaceful respite, John fist had to go over with Jamie what exactly they were saying to Molly. John had told her that the local police had some questions for Jamie before they could close their case officially on Moriarty, and Sherlock had agreed to take Jamie because he out of all the adults would keep the boy safe and might actually make things fun. John instructed Jamie just to say he didn't want to talk about it. He felt pangs of guilt about this, but he hadn't been the one lying every day for the first half decade of marriage, so he was certain he would get over this little ruse. Really, it was just to keep Molly from undue stress. She hadn't had a lot of sleep lately. So first John had to make sure Jamie was clear on the story, then when he did finally get home, alibi prepared, he found Molly pacing the living room with the baby, who was screaming her head off. She barely greeted them and certainly didn't stop to ask any questions.

"Hello loves. Try to keep it down, Carrie's in a mood."

Jamie gave her and the baby a quick kiss and went to put his bag away. John took off his coat and held out his arms. "How long has she been crying?"

"Hours, seems like. I fed her, I changed her, I rocked her. I don't know what it is." She looked, and sounded exhausted as she handed the squalling infant over. John carefully took her and started to walk back and forth. As if by magic, she quieted down within minutes. Molly from her collapsed spot on the couch shot him a look that was both dirty and grateful at the same time.

"I hate you a little bit right now." she muttered.

"No you don't."

"Okay I don't." she agreed. "But she is such a little daddy's girl."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

.

.

.

It was in the wee hours of the next night when Sherlock was finally disturbed from his thinking. He had not left his room, for food or any other personal need, since his conversation with John. He did not know if Mary was still there or not. He did not know about his brother's welfare. All his thoughts and cares were devoted to this lead, to the identities. The actual physical work had gone by rather quickly. He had first sent off an email to an anonymous account with the subject line, "Did you see that thing last night?' and within minutes received a call from Pierce Shelley, who from what Sherlock could tell was a middle man in the intelligence business, somewhat of an assistant to the people Mycroft coordinated with. He was also concerned about his hairline, spent too much on clothing and was allergic to peanuts. The conversation was short, Sherlock told him what he had found in detail. Pierce asked him to send pictures and said a messenger would come by for the documents. Sherlock told him that he needed time with them first (some would say he requested it, but he wasn't really asking) and Pierce agreed (again, not that Sherlock had really asked) that so long as he sent pictures he could keep them until Monday. Sherlock knew within that time that people would be sent to see if he had missed any at Beecher's house (he had not). He also made sure Piece had the pertinent information on each identity so they could begin checking for any kind of traceable record of them.

Then the real work had begun.

He had to touch everything, each item. Fingerprints would be useless, obviously, so he didn't worry about ruining them. He committed the textures to memory. The smells were important too, and he absorbed each. He did not cease his physical examination until he knew the documents as he knew his own skin. Then he had carefully reorganized them, sealed them up and lay back on his bed to simply think. Although he was technically aware of time passing, he didn't realize how much until he had gone to his phone to look up something and noticed it was dead. He plugged it in to charge and more time slipped away. He might have slept, he wasn't sure, he only knew that he was roused back into the real world at some point by a hammering at his door.

"Go away!" he shouted.

"He doesn't really mean that." he heard someone murmur. A woman. So Mary was still there.

"Yes I do!" he yelled.

"Just go in, you'll be fine."

He objected to that. Whoever was about to disturb him would not be fine. Sherlock sat up, furious, prepared to unleash hell. Timid Pierce Shelley walked in and he snapped, "What are you doing here? It isn't Monday, is it? Take them and get out."

"Mr. Holmes..."

"Don't make me throw them, I will."

"Mr. Holmes, you are quite right that it is not Monday. In fact, it has only been about 36 hours since we spoke, but I have a matter that needs your attention." His eyes slid to Mary, who was still in the hallway. He didn't want to say more in front of her, which piqued Sherlock's interest. He allowed Pierce to collect the documents and steer Sherlock away from his room, out in the house, and into a car. Only when they were inside did he tell him anything else.

"I've been told to ask you who you spoke to whilst in Switzerland, traveling, or home about what you found."

"Why?"

The other man, tiny like John but brilliantly colored with red hair and green eyes and, if you looked closely, freckles, smiled. "I'm sorry but it doesn't work like that." His tone was apologetic, aware that he was dealing with someone volatile.

"John Watson, my associate, my nephew Jamie, and you."

"No one else? Did you question anyone in the village before you broke into the Beecher home?"

Sherlock gave him a hard look.

"No then. Did anyone see you while you were in the Beecher residence? Do you have any reason to believe you were spotted?"

Another look.

"We have of course disabled any security measures, but there is still the possibility..." Pierce got out his phone and started tapping at it. He lapsed into a silence that Sherlock didn't break until the long drive ended and they pulled up to a house. It seemed familiar, but how he couldn't figure out. It was annoying. He had not ever physically been here, he was certain. So why did he know this house?

Pierce nodded to a man who was stationed at the door and they went inside. Curiouser and Curiouser. Once they had passed the thresh hold, the smell of blood was troubling obvious. It seemed like the walls must have been painted with it for the odor to be so strong.

"Pierce, where are we?"

"I've kept the police from the scene. We had someone watching the residence but they didn't report anything. A trusted agent, experienced, so whoever slipped in and out...well, we can't figure it. A locked room mystery, Mr. Holmes, don't you like those?"

"Where. Are. We?" he asked again through grit teeth.

"Maybe we should just have a look." Pierce told him, pointing him the direction of the bedroom.

Sherlock walked forward, in his head reciting the addresses of distant relations, friendly police officers, old clients, but nothing came to him. He did not know who he was about to see, but he could wager why they were dead.

The bedroom was worse than he could have imagined. Truly, and his imagination was quite vivid. Blood was not painting the walls, which was what he had anticipated, but was instead soaked so deeply into the mattress that the body on top of the bed seemed to be swimming in it. He said body, but the broken creature before him was not an entire corpse. The torso lay spread eagle in the deep pool of blood, bruises on the skin as well as burns. It was a woman, in her fifties judging from the nightgown. For some reason, he focused on the nail polish it wore. Bright red. That put it together in Sherlock's mind. Bright red like her hair should be.

"This is Harriet Watson." He had seen the house in photos.

"It was Harriet Watson, Mr. Holmes." Pierce corrected quietly.

"Where is her head?"

"We haven't found it. No head, just this."

He picked up a bag from the dresser. They were soaked in blood, collected from the bed perhaps, but Sherlock could clearly make out the items. A passport. A license. Credit Cards. He knew these things. He had studied them. Not these in particular, but clearly this was from Beecher's set.

"Stupid." he muttered. "So stupid."

"What is?" Pierce asked.

"I am." Sherlock answered.


	9. Chapter 9

** – Chapter Nine **

**Disclaimer: This is a fanfiction and thus not based on anything I own. I reserve comment about what I would do if I did actually own it. **

Minutes passed. To be very precise, four minutes passed. Four minutes in which Sherlock's eyes took in every detail. He noted the garish pattern of the bedspread, the smell of cigarettes hidden deep beneath the scent of carnage, the library card on the dresser and the mismatched socks hidden only partially by the bed. He memorized everything about the scene, he absorbed it. While the circuitry of his brain concentrated on this, he was only partially aware of the fact that his heart was racing. He tried to ignore it. Only the polite but insistent coughing of Pierce Shelley, aide at large, annoyingly posh but nervous young Oxford boy, closeted homosexual and amatuer horticulturist, forced him to confront the issue at hand.

"Excuse me Mr. Holmes but we're waiting on your word, sir."

"My word?" He wrinkled his nose at the implications.

"Yes sir. If Mr. Holmes were here, the is to say, if your brother were here he would be giving us instructions on how to handle the crime, sir."

The crime? The crime John would surely commit...maybe that was the plan, maybe James Beecher was trying to lure John out into some kind of trap. It was an excellent plan except Sherlock suspected Beecher might be underestimating John. Maybe that wasn't the plan then. Sherlock still could not grasp exactly what Beecher's plan was and that vexed him immeasurably. He showed up, made violent threats, and then disappeared, only popping up occasionally to murder someone, and only then when Sherlock made an inroad into finding him. He didn't know what Beecher hoped to gain with this. Several ideas passed through his thoughts...again, an attempt to lure John, or frame them, maybe it was simply that he wanted to make them suffer in the most random, painful ways possible...but none seemed to fit. Like everything else, he couldn't get a handle on this criminal's mind.

At his side, Pierce quietly coughed again. Instead of ignoring him, which granted was easier, Sherlock whirled around until he faced the younger man. "You know I can recommend an excellent doctor if there is something physically wrong with your throat, otherwise, if you make that noise again I am going to reach inside your mouth and remove any obstacles that may be keeping you from breathing with my own hands. Understand?"

"Sorry, sir, it's only..."

"Call me 'sir' one more time and see what I do to you."

"I'm sorry Mr. Holmes but..."

"LEAVE! Those are my instructions. Leave me alone!" He stopped shouting and managed to suck in a deep gasping breath. "Leave me with the scene for five minutes. Five minutes exactly. Then we will sort everything."

Pierce, his face whiter than normal, fled from his presence. The other men in the house also left. Sherlock suspected they all went outside to smoke. No matter. He had time now.

He went into the hallway and started to pace, running his fingers through his hair and massaging his scalp to stimulate thought. What to do...what to do...he knew there were steps he needed to take but all he could think of was John. Their entire lives, John had a complicated relationship with Harriet. Sherlock had been able to relate to him on the point of being estranged from a sibling, but John seemed to blame himself for some reason. Would he blame himself for this? Likely. Would he think of all the missed opportunities for reconcillation? Again, likely. He would look at Sherlock with those blue eyes of his and the grief and pain in them would be clear as day. They would talk and he would use the word 'never' a lot. Then he would ask Sherlock to leave him be so that he could cry in private. He would cry, Molly would know, and then Molly would be giving him the same moon-eyed sad looks. This would go on for weeks, perhaps months, in which Sherlock would have no one except Mycroft and Jamie to talk to. He would effectively lose his best friend until further notice. Worse, John may not be able to handle it at all. This might be one death, one consequence too many for him and he could slip away forever. Unacceptable. So how to prevent it? This was all he could think of, while Harriet Watson's corpse grew colder. **John.** He tried to reroute his brain but it was impossible.

He crouched, letting his back sit against the wall while his weight was on his heels. He had no idea what to do. Well, no, that was imprecise. He had no idea what to do with Pierce and the others, which he knew was critical if the crime was to be handled correctly. On the other hand, he knew exactly what he personally needed to do. He just didn't want to do it.

But he would. For John.

Smacking the back of his head into the wall a few times to prepare himself for the pain and idiocy of this, he got his phone out from his pocket. He would prefer to text, but...

"Hello Mycroft."

He listened to his brother's tinny greeting, cutting him off before he told him too much about his plans for a Boggle tournament with Mary. "Yes, fabulous. Listen, I need your help."

He paused and even with the mobile phone reception being spotty, he could hear the triumph in Mycroft's tone. It made bile rise in his throat. He didn't want to involve him at all, didn't want his sticky fingers stuck in the matter of Beecher. Not after Moriarty, not after he **let him go** for years, but Sherlock had to admit to mild relief when Mycroft gave brief, concise instructions on what to do with everyone at Sherlock's immediate disposal, covering everything so that Sherlock would be free to deliver the news to John.

"I can go with you if you'd like." Mycroft added.

"No, not nessecary."

"I know how difficult it will be to see John so upset. Let me help."

"You've helped quite enough. Thank you." Sherlock added, the words like acid on his lips. "Go have some pie." He hung up even as Mycroft either retorted or apologized or ...Sherlock didn't really care. He gave Mycroft's instructions to Pierce and then called for a taxi to take him to John's.

During the ride, Sherlock thought to all the instances in which Harriet Watson had been mentioned. There were few. John didn't like to talk about her. The addict, the screw up, John's great failure as a healer. He would talk sometimes about her self-destruction, her irresponsibility, everything she'd wasted. A few times he had spoken on behalf of Mycroft...before the whole Molly matter, of course...about how hard it was for him to have to be the good child while Harriet did whatever the fuck she pleased. Still, he talked more about the war than he did about Harriet, and he practically never talked about the war. In fact, as Sherlock searched his memories, he could only remember one time when he had said anything at length, and even stranger, it was a conversation that made John happy.

He had been pissed, a late night out with a girl that turned out to be less than willing, and John was sitting in front of the fire at Baker Street, his feet up on the ottoman. Sherlock was working on a case at the time and using John as a sounding board for theories. The details were unimportant, but it had somehow led to John talking about rolling Harriet through a field in the middle of the night during his university days.

"So we're at our cousin's place out in the country, Harriet and me and Luce. This town makes that last place you and I went look like London central. No theater, no hotels, not even a bloody Tesco. Just sheep and more sheep and the pub. Television reception was crap. After two nights we'd played all the board games, we'd gotten all caught up with the family, we'd seen the sheep and we were bored out of our skulls. I say, let's go down to the pub and grab a bite and maybe a pint or two. This was before, "he waved his hand around vaguely, "the drinking really got out of control. Or so I thought. Anyway, we get some food and Harriet has a drink. Then she has another drink. Then another. By the time I'm done with the pie she's six sheets to the wind. Swears she can still walk back to the house though. So we're walking along the road, middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. She's stumbling everywhere, keeps smacking into my damned shoulder. I get a little bit ahead of her and the next thing I know, I turn around and she's not there. I go back, shouting, and find her passed out by the side of the road. Face down in the dirt. I manage to wake her up but she's not going to be walking anywhere. She's talking to me about ponies." He started laughing. "Okay now remember that I was a little drunk myself, I'm not thinking my clearest. I decide, I'll have to go get the car and then drive back round for her. But what am I supposed to do with her? I can't just leave her sitting by the street like roadkill. She'd get run over or molested or run over and then molested. So my brilliant idea was to roll her into this field hoping no one would see her until I get back with the car. Here I am, one in the morning, out in Sheepsville, Nowhere, rolling my sister like a barrel into the grass and leaving her so I could go get the car. I'm lucky she was still there when I got back."

"This is yet another example of why I am the smart one." Sherlock had remarked. John had no choice but to agree on that point. There were a few other funny stories he told, one about Harriet giving him advice on women, before inevitably the talk of her alcoholism soured the mood. Sherlock could remember the stupid smile John had while he talked about the field though. Maybe he'd use it in the eulogy.

The taxi deposited him at the Watson residence and Sherlock stood outside, his fingers itching to grab a cigarette but he denied himself. He wanted to suffer on some level as John would be. In his head, he tried to rehearse what he would say to John as he walked up and rang the bell, but everything he tried seemed lacking. He would not admit to nervousness, but this did seem to be a situation where he would say the wrong thing entirely. This was exactly the type of thing he had John for, ironically.

Molly, still in the blush of new motherhood with her haggard, sleepless appearance and the extra 10 pounds. She probably greeted him, she seemed to be speaking, but he simply pushed past her. "John!" he called out.

He found his friend in the nursery. Not a surprise as this was the most likely spot for him. He and the baby were doing something with colored shapes on the floor. His smile was bright as he tickled the child's stomach and looked up at him. "Hello Sherlock. Normal cheery self with Molly I bet. What is it, locked room murder? Poisonous snake in the bedroom again?"

"John I need to speak with you."

"Yes, that's what we're doing."

"No. Put Carolyn in the crib. We need to talk outside."

The back porch of John's home had become the spot of all their serious conversations, since Sherlock usually smoked (and on occasion John did as well) during them. So when Sherlock, in that tone, spoke those words, the smile melted away from John's face and he tucked the baby away quietly. Clearly, he knew this was going to be bad.

He just had no idea how bad.

Sherlock kept his lips sealed until they were outdoors. He had collected Molly on the way so that she could be with John for emotional support. Once they were seated, a united couple, on the little wooden swing, he decided for the direct route and said simply, "Harriet is dead."

"Um...what?"

"Harriet is dead. Sometime in the night. It was Beecher. He left one of his passports behind. It was very violent. I'm sorry."

"...What?" John said again. Next to him, Molly had brought her hands up to her mouth and was doing a combination of gasping and sobbing.

"Harriet is dead. Sometime in the nigh-"

"Yes. I heard you. Just...what? I mean, Harriet? Why Harriet? She didn't know anything. She wasn't involved. She couldn't even be bothered to go with Jamie before, she was too damn drunk...!" he had started speaking but his sentence ended in a whimper when his words seemed to collapse on themselves. He sat back on the swing and this look overtook him. Sherlock could not describe it. He knew that his friend was feeling something, and based on basic facts he could guess what, but he could not fathom the depth of it. He could not imagine ever feeling what John seemed to feel right now.

Molly was rubbing John's back now, they were talking quietly now, whispering to themselves. Now Molly was kissing his forehead and John was trying to look like he wasn't crying, but he was. Molly was getting up to make tea, it was what she did. She was leaving them alone. Sherlock had not spoken while he watched this. Even now that she was gone, he did not talk. He didn't know what to say. Luckily, John broke the silence.

"You are sure that it was Beecher?"

"Yes."

"What are you going to do?"

He arranged this thoughts carefully. "There is some immediate work to do on the actual crime scene itself. I feel like it would be appropriate for me to attend the funeral. After that, I think the time has come that I handle the manhunt. We're not getting anywhere otherwise. Mycroft seems happy with Mary. Mary seems suitable and her background check was come out clean. I don't need to be here anymore."

John nodded. Whereas maybe even two weeks ago, he would have railed and he would have lectured, now he agreed. "Fine, good."

"I'll find him John."

John nodded again. "And when you do, you'll call me. I want him for myself, Sherlock. Do you understand?"

Now Sherlock nodded. "I understand."

"Right. I've got phone calls to make." John got up, bumping into Molly with her tea coming out. He pushed her inside and they both left Sherlock to sit and think until he too got up and headed to Mycroft's.

It was like his brother was...his brother again. In all the of the good ways, limited though those were, but not yet any of the bad. Sherlock had seen him in a frenzy of work, sighed and knew that he couldn't close the door on the case now that it was opened, and first spoke with Mary at length. Yes, she would be fine staying on hand more permanently, for a significant raise and other considerations. Sherlock ignored the blush in her cheek and eager look in her eyes at the thought of this. He was not dealing with Mycroft's wedding. He refused.

After that was taken care of, he found his brother in the study. Sherlock didn't comment on the computer being turned on. He sat down in front of the unlit fireplace. "Mycroft."

"Sherlock!" he sounded positively giddy. "I've just about caught up with the files. I'm really terribly impressed at the level of organization, you must have restrained yourself beautifully. I noticed a few oversights, nothing to worry about, you're inexperienced, but they're taken care of now. The assignments you had for Sladen and Manning were pointless, I've moved them to monitering all international airports in Europe. It may not seem effective but if you watch enough cameras you are bound to get something. Now let's talk about these false identity papers you found."

"John's fine, by the way."

"Oh I doubt that very much, but he'll manage. How's Molly?"

"Making tea."

"Hmmph."

"John wants to know why. So do I. It doesn't make sense. Either Beecher is going to destroy us all or he is going to leave us be. It seems indecisive, the way he goes back and forth. Why hit Harriet? If he wants to hurt you, why not kill me? If he wants to hurt me, John is the obvious choice, or Mrs. Hudson. Harming Jamie would leave all of us prostrate and save him a lot of effort. So why this...this flitting back and forth?"

"That is your problem Sherlock. That has **always** been your problem, you need to know why. But there is not always a why. Perhaps Beecher desires this randomness as a way to catch us off guard. Maybe he simply enjoys drawing it out. Or maybe there isn't a reason at all. He could just be doing whatever he feels like doing." Mycroft shrugged, a gesture that on him seemed eloquent. "There doesn't need to be a why."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Mycroft's reasoning made sense but led to places he disliked. "Aren't you brain damaged?" he snipped.

"And yet, still smarter than you, brother dear."

Sherlock scowled, Mycroft smirked. For the moment, everything was normal again.

**A/Ns:** **Liked it? Leave a review or PM me. -hrlyqin **


	10. Chapter 10

** – chapter 10**

Three days later and it was raining. John felt like it was some sort of divine irony, making the world all wet and weepy for someone who he hadn't decided if he missed yet or not. It was a strange sort of feeling that overcame him whenever he thought of his sister; not quite grief but not quite not grief either. It was more like regret. He would have rather had grief, he was more certain that would pass.

So there he was, standing out in the rain outside Harry's house. The fact that there was no more Harry didn't change him thinking of it as Harry's place, although technically he guessed it was his. Harry hadn't been organized enough to leave a will but no one else in the family seemed to want to deal with the mess, so it fell to John. Even on her way out, Harry still had him cleaning up her messes. He shivered. He could just wait inside, he knew, but he didn't want to be in the house alone. It was all secure, the company that did 'crime scene clean-up' had come and gone, the police weren't pulling anymore evidence, there was even security, although it was the kind John couldn't see, but none of that changed the fact that he didn't want to go into Harry's empty house by himself.

He clutched his phone in one hand, mashing out _Where are you _in a quick text. Two more minutes and he would just toss it all and go in. Warm himself with some brandy, there was bound to be some. Luckily, a taxi pulled up just then and let out his companion on this stupid adventure. As she approached, her smile was kind but faltering. It was not a joyous occasion. "Hello John."

"Hi Clara. How was the trip?"

"As well as can be expected. Should we go in?"

"Sure..." he got the key out and walked them up to and through the door, explaining what he had just been thinking about, "Everything is cleaned up, they're not worried about finger prints or anything so touch whatever you like." He closed the door behind them.

"Thank you for, you know, letting me look around."

"If you see anything that you'd want to keep, just let me know. I'm honestly not sure what to do with it all."

"It's a nice house. You aren't going to move in?"

A shrug as he led her to the living room. "I'm happy where I am. The wife has finally has everything just so."

"Right...um...Molly? How is she?"

"Tired all the time. We've got the new baby at home." He got out his phone again a gesture familiar to anyone, going to the gallery and showing her six or seven pictures in quick succession. "Carolyn."

"She's adorable. Looks..."

"Just like her mum." they finished together with a laugh. He then displayed some pictures of Jamie, showing her how big he was getting, to which Clara got out her phone and went through the ranks. "This is Lucy, Bobby, Michael and this...that's my husband Phil and our poodle Chiqie."

"Husband?" he asked with surprise.

"I guess it was a phase after all. Mom was right." she sat down on the sofa. "So how was...Harry, towards the end?"

"The same. That's really the blessing of Harry, I guess. She had a good time, she never got down, always the life of the party."

"Still drunk up to her eyeballs every night?" Clara asked, looking down at her shoes and letting herself sniffle.

"We sort of, well, not 'gave up', but after all the rehabs failing and all the fighting, the family accepted that it wasn't going to change. She wasn't an unhappy drunk, she could mainly function, so why go through the misery?"

"I'm sorry."

"You've got nothing to be sorry for."

"If I could have stuck it out though, things might have been different."

"**She** left **you**, Clara. There wasn't really anything you could have done."

"She left me right but only after we couldn't say two words for each other without it turning into screaming. She said she wanted a wife, not a mother. Told me she wished I could just relax and have fun. I'd say that having fun didn't mean blacking out, and then one of us would wind up sleeping on the couch." Her head was still down but John was certain she was crying now. "Shit. Here we are and Harry's dead and all I want is a drink. How horrible is that?"

"Not horrible at all. I bet there's something in the kitchen."

"Then bring the bottle."

John went off to check. There was something, alright, there was enough something to open a small town liquor store. He grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses and carried it back out to Clara, who was still trying to keep her weeping quiet. He sat down next to her on the couch and poured. "There's plenty more out there, obviously." He said as he offered her the glass.

"Red, Harry always liked red. Called it her ginger wine."

"That's...stupid." John said, although it made him smile.

"She was kind of stupid. It made me love her, her stupid jokes, her terrible pick-up lines. I think the first time we met, she asked me if I wanted to have dinner, then asked me if I wanted to have breakfast instead. It was awful."

"But you had the breakfast." John pointed out.

"Well, there were other reasons that I loved her too." she answered without a blush. "Her family, for one. She had a very nice brother."

"Her brother was probably just glad you weren't covered in tattoos and glitter like the last three. You were good for her, you know. You made her grow up a little bit."

"Just not enough." She finished her wine in one gulp and poured herself another. John kept taking sips but the sips became larger as they talked about the good things they could remember. Harry loved dogs. She loved to go round to junk stores and she would always find really great things. Clara looked around the room and pointed out two or three nick-knacks she remembered them buying together. She'd had a good hand and eye for decorating. It went without saying that all of these talents disappeared with the drinking. "Also," Clara added as a last stab. "she loved her brother. The rest of the family could go to hell but she always worried about Johnny. Her brother the doctor, the brave soldier. She was very proud of you."

"She had a funny way of showing it."

"That was Harry...is there more wine?"

John realized the bottle was gone. He went to get more. An Irish wake for his alcoholic sister. It was fitting. Clara seemed to be taking it well but John knew how it went, so long as they kept talking things would be okay. It was only when they ran out of things to say and they had to sit in the silence would they be crushed by the weight of Harry's death on their shoulders. But so long as they kept talking, it would be okay.

Clara's mood was much more somber when he got back. He poured her and him another glass and there was that silence. It was almost too much. Her crying was louder now, and John rubbed her back gently. He wished he could say it was all alright, or that it was going to be, but the words wouldn't pass his lips. He had his wine in one hand and a crying woman in the other for a few minutes until finally she said, "I never told her, you know. Not even when things got really bad. I wanted to. I should have. But I didn't. She loved you so much and no one else in her family really bothered with her, so how could I say..."

"It was just a dumb mistake." John assured her. "It doesn't mean you didn't love her."

"How would you feel, if Molly did something like that? And then on top of it, if she lied to you about it?"

_Molly has lied about a lot_, John thought with that familiar tinge of bitterness. But she had her reasons, and he was trying to understand them. "I'd be pretty pissed off, I guess. But that'd be different."

"Because you and Molly are man-and-wife, not a pair of dykes?"

"No." he set the wine down. "It just would be."

"Has she ever cheated on you?"

"Not...no, she hasn't."

"But?" Clara asked, latching on to the first part of his statement.

"There's this man, her son's father," he said to make things simply, "and I can tell, sometimes, she wonders if she didn't get stuck with the wrong guy. He's always there too, coming in to save the day or needing her, eliciting her sympathy. I wish he would just fuck up something really grand so she could see that he's human like the rest of us. He drank too, for a while, and Molly would barely speak to him at all, but she still felt so bad for him. She couldn't quite cut the strings. Now he's had this injury, he's lost a lot, and he's a saint again. It would be different if I could tell myself that he doesn't do any of this on purpose, and it's not like he wants Molly to swoon, but he does. He's a rat bastard who knows exactly what he does and he does it on purpose. Not that he wants her, no, he just wants to have the angle running, just in case."

"And have you ever?"

"No. Never." he said firmly. "I look, that's all."

"Yeah, that sounds entirely different to me." Clara said, rounding back to her original statement. John's hand on her back was firmer now, he was angry and it was showing. This was nothing world shaking, he and Molly had problems they were trying to work out, but he just never got to talk like this to anyone. He couldn't tell Molly because she'd cry. He couldn't tell Sherlock because if you mention Mycroft to Sherlock you had to hear about Machiavellian conspiracies and deep seated resentment. Clara finally shifted in her seat before he bruised her accidentally.

"I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No, it's fine. Things are just complicated right now."

Two more swallows and then more wine for both of them. "It sounds like she's done a number on you."

"We're working it out."

"No stupid mistakes, not like I did."

"Don't...blame yourself. I was there too."

"I know. I don't know if I ever told you, but, it was a good night John."

He flushed a little bit. "Well you'd been off women for awhile. Anything with some meat..."

She smacked him on the shoulder, and her hand remained. "Stop. I'm trying to compliment you."

"We should probably just drop it."

"Right."

"In fact, we haven't even looked around at all. That was the whole reason for coming here."

"I know."

He slid forward on the couch, the room tipping a little, and started to get up. Clara's steady hand on his arm stopped him. "John," she said, "let's do something stupid."

.

.

.

"Mycroft!" Mary shouted, trotting down the hallway towards his office. "Are you in there?" He had just enough time to clack some keys and bring up a random website before she came in. "Hey, you're not supposed to work anymore tonight."

"Sorry, just closing up a few matters."

"Well, come to bed already."

"Is my nursemaid going to Tuck. Me. In?" he asked, steepling his fingers and letting his tongue click out the last three words.

"Maybe if you're good." she told him. "Finish it up or I'm coming to get you in five minutes."

"Don't worry." Mycroft watched as she went, noticing the extra rhythm she put into her steps on the way out. There was absolutely nothing subtle about her, but he found he didn't mind that. No coyness, no dancing around what they both wanted. It would do fine for now, and he did need to get his strength back.

Once she had gone again, he tapped the same keys and brought up the camera footage he had been watching. "Dr. Watson, you've been a very bad boy."


	11. Chapter 11

**Aerials, Chapter 11**

The real question was, what to do about this?

As Mycroft dressed for the day, checking off his mental list of vest, tie, tie pin, suit jacket, pants, trousers, trouser socks and so forth, he pondered what to do with the information that had fallen into his lap. There were just so many possibilities, and so many of them were delicious, that he could not quite decide.

The first choice that came to him was to tell Molly. It would be one of those unusual conversations only people like him had to have, "Whilst I was spying on your husband I just happened to notice that he slept with his former sister-in-law. I have it all on video, would you like to see?" He would not, of course, phrase it like that, but telling Molly that John had been unfaithful was his first impulse. She deserved to know, first and foremost. It might also be the factor that caused her to separate from John, leaving her single and emotionally vulnerable. Mycroft could then divest himself of Mary and step in to the role that he knew he was meant to play, as Molly's protector and white knight.

Then again,

If he told her, he would have to witness her devastation and he would always be associated with that feeling in Molly's mind. She wouldn't be able to think of the deep heartache without remembering that Mycroft was the messenger. He didn't wish to cause her any such hurt, and he definitely did not wish to taint himself any further in her mind. So the obvious choice was not so obvious after all.

Then again,

He knew that there was a history of marriages continuing to sail along oblivious to infidelity, especially British marriages. There was a fine tradition of wives looking the other way, and soldier's wives...doubly so! He knew that none of this exactly applied, but he still had to admit that if he just left things alone, it all might be fine. John could even become a better husband because of this indiscretion.

Then again,

It was a rare day when Mycroft possessed information that he _didn't_ use in some way. It went against his nature to just let it lay fallow. So what to do with it?

A plan was forming in his mind. Something slightly distasteful but not wholly unpleasant. Mycroft preferred to think of it as 'Step One'. The only reason he had not yet enacted this plan was that it would hurt Molly, possibly as much as simply just telling her. Still, in the long run, it might be the best solution.

His pondering was interrupted by Mary, svelte Mary, coming into the bedroom with only the most cursory of knocks. He noted that with a slight frown as something he would need to keep in check. He hoped she did not think that just because he was bedding her, she could drop all manner of deference. Mycroft was not looking for an equal in her, just as she was not looking for a soul-mate in him. If pressed, Mycroft would say that she was a gold digger. Hungry eyes, good clothes but well-worn, the verbal hints she dropped about how extravagant his home was, it didn't take keen powers of observation to see what she was after. He wondered if Sherlock had noticed.

She came up to him and helped straighten his tie, which was not necessary but her touch was both soothing and sensual. "Are you sure you want me to come with you?" she asked.

_Yes, I need to parade you around. It's what men do, isn't it? _"Of course. If I were to have a lapse, it wouldn't do for me to be by myself."

"It's only, this seems like a family thing."

"John Watson is not my family." he corrected her. "If you don't want to go, simply say so. I can have someone else escort me."

"No!" she answered quickly. "No. I just wanted to make sure that you wanted me there."

As a concession to her insecurities, he collected her hands off of his clothing and kissed her fingers each in turn. "Of course I do. I don't think I could manage it without you."

"Alright." she smiled, obviously put at ease. Mycroft felt a pang of guilt when she smiled like that, but only a pang. Neither of them were kidding themselves that this was true love, surely she knew that?

"Well, we better go if we're going to be on time. The only funeral I plan on being late for is my own." When she still just smiled uncertainly, he added, "That was a joke, darling. Come along."

Arriving at the funeral home, it was much as Mycroft had both expected and feared. John had opted for something secular, believing that would be his sister's wishes, so the room was swept clean of any religious symbols and felt hollow. There were sprays of flowers draped where crosses would go. There were sprays of flowers at the end of each pew. There were sprays of flowers on the altar. The scent was cloying and nearly choked him. White roses and peonies everywhere. Nestled among these arrangements was a tiny urn, plain but stately, almost hidden from view. As he and Mary found seats, he noted that there were not many people here. Up front were John, Molly and Jamie, Sherlock was seated next to them and seemed to be on his best behavior. In the very back rows were maybe a dozen friends of Bill W. from the local AA chapter that Harry must have flirted with. A few fairly obvious homosexuals, maybe nine in all including Clara, were sprinkled around. The rest of the attendees had sandy hair, good complexions and bland smiles and there were perhaps ten of them.

The phrase '_Awash in a sea of Watsons'_ came to Mycroft's mind unbidden, causing him to smile but only briefly.

During the service, Mycroft mostly tried to keep himself mentally in check. He had little habits and tricks now to make sure that his brain was operating properly. Of course, if it wasn't, he had no idea how he would know. So maybe these habits were only a lie to soothe him, but they worked and so he sat, counting to 100 in each language that he was fluent in, reminding himself of the date, the time and his location each time that he switched. The only time he paid attention was when John Watson stood up and spoke a few words. Ever a simple man, John said that he wished he and Harry had been closer, that he loved her dearly and that he hoped that she had found peace now, wherever she was. It was a lovely sentiment.

After the official ceremonies were over, Mycroft took Mary and made his way to the front where first he greeted Molly warmly, embracing her as Mary tried to control the daggers shooting out of her eyes.

"Molly, how are you?"

"Oh I'm fine. It's John that's...well he's upset, of course. He's barely slept a wink. All the planning and everything, his family didn't help. I tried to but what do I know about funerals? Does everything look okay?"

So Molly had been responsible for the flowers. How unfortunate. "It looks perfect." he lied smoothly. "I believe you know my friend, Mary." he added as an afterthought.

The women exchanged strained polite greetings while Mycroft moved on to where Sherlock was sitting with Jamie as the adults interacted. Mycroft bent over and embraced Jamie, sitting down beside him as Sherlock watched Mary and Molly and commented to him, "Are you sure it's safe to leave them alone?"

"I checked Mary for weapons, don't worry."

"It isn't Mary I'm worried about. What are you playing at, exactly?"

Mycroft pretended to be shocked. "Playing at? I'm not playing at anything. Mary and I have simply started keeping company, that's all. She has been around a lot, now that you're abandoning me."

Jamie's head was whipping back and forth as he watched his father and his uncle talking, as if he were enjoying a really good tennis match. He saw Sherlock roll his eyes and answer. "Don't be dramatic. We both know this is for the best. I'll be out of your hair, doing all the _**legwork**_**, **while you get to sit behind a desk and claim credit when I find the criminal. It's just like old times."

Sherlock smiled thinly, clearly not in the mood to argue with Mycroft about his decision to leave. Mycroft smiled thinly back with a clipped "Quite." and turned his attention back to Jamie, asking how he was.

"I'm supposed to be sad." was his answer.

"Yes." Mycroft replied. "You should be sad. Are you not?"

The boy shrugged. "Aunt Harry was always fighting with Dad. She never did anything she was supposed to do. Dad always had to take care of her and he said she was a right pain in the arse. I don't understand why everyone is sad she's dead."

"Well, when someone dies, even if we did not especially like them -" Mycroft started.

At the same time, Sherlock said, "Interesting." and took out his notebook to write. "If something happened to someone that you liked, would you be sad about that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for instance, you were sad when John was hurt."

Jamie nodded.

"But since you didn't like Harriet, you aren't upset as society dictates you should be."

"I'm...not really." Jamie said uncertainly. Mycroft could see that Jamie was becoming upset now, afraid he had done something wrong. Sherlock continued to scribble as Mycroft tried to put the doubts he had at the back of his mind. It was not a normal psychological response, not at all. If anything, the child should be distressed at the grief of the adults around him and be more emotional than they were. Instead, he was stating that he didn't see the point in pretending to be sad.

But, it was stupid and Sherlock was surely reading too much into it. He hissed something to that effect to his brother and stroked Jamie's hair. The boy was exhausted. He had seen so much this year, he was at his capacity for emotions. That was all. He could see the child trying to not appear agitated right now at the thought that he had commit some sort of social faux pas. How Sherlock could complicate things in such a short amount of time really marveled Mycroft. He was forced to summon Molly over so she could take over comforting Jamie while Mycroft went to speak to John. It was paramount that he did and he did not need Sherlock fucking this up by wanting to play child psychologist.

If anything, this cemented Mycroft's plan as the right thing to do.

He waited while Dr. Watson received other Watsons and strangers, each of them telling him how sorry, so so sorry, they were. Mycroft approached him ahead of a dumpy woman in black flowered dress and after John finished speaking to a bearded Watson gentleman.

"John." he said, "Allow me to express my deepest sympathy. This must be so difficult for you."

"Thank you." John said stiffly.

"It was nice for Clara to come, wasn't it?"

"Pardon me?"

"Clara, is that not her name? Harriet's ex-wife. It was good of her to come, even though she has moved on."

"Yes, well, they were married."

"Were you close, you and Clara?"

"Not really. I'm sorry but I really have a lot-"

"Because it appears you are now." Mycroft said, making it an offhand statement.

"What?" John asked. Surely, he hadn't heard him right. He was tired, dead on his feet, and he must have misheard or just misunderstood what Mycroft said.

"You and Clara. From what I saw the other night, it seems like you are very close indeed."

"What!" John asked, his face reddening as he looked around to see if anyone had heard. No one was within earshot except the woman in the ugly dress.

"If there is anything I can do, please don't hesitate to ask. Mary and I would be happy to take care of Jamie for awhile, for instance."

"What?" he blustered again. Mycroft was tempted to ask him if he could say anything else, but he had John exactly where he wanted him right now, unsteady on his feet, not sure what Mycroft was talking about but very afraid he meant exactly what he was implying. He watched the gears turn, seeing John get red.

"Well, as I said, let me know. Good day, Doctor Watson."

Mycroft left the man confused and afraid. Later, he would strike. He knew that Sherlock was not likely to forgive Mycroft this action, but in the long run he would understand. It was a complex plan relying on many parts, this was only the first of them. It would all make sense eventually and then, they would realize how he had known best all along.

They'd wish they listened to him.

He collected Mary with an arm around her waist and they left together. Questions were stamped on her features but Mycroft didn't allow her to ask any of them. When they arrived home, he took his medicines like a good boy and then pulled her into the bedroom. His appetite that afternoon was insatiable as he was overwhelmed by a feeling he had not known for so long.

Power.

.

.

.

**Author Notes: Well this chapter was quite a turn up, isn't it? Sorta evil Mycroft was not where this started out in my head but we'll see how it goes! Please leave some comments or P/Ms, I'm a little bit depressed about a lack of feedback. Tadpole11 has been my little cheerleader, so thank you for that. More to post soon. -hrlyqin **


	12. Chapter 12

**AERIALS, Chapter 12**

In the end, he couldn't do it. He wanted to, yes, he was eager to. He had even convinced himself it was the right decision, but he just couldn't. So Mycroft found himself, like so many other times, sitting in front of the fire with a glass in his hand. The fact that the glass held lemon water was immaterial, it was an all too familiar pose.

Sip.

Brood.

Sip.

Brood.

He would be content to sit like this all night and if the mood struck him, even try something stronger than the water. This week had not held his finest moments. First there was his inability to confront John and carry through with his plan, and secondly, secondly and as usual, there was his brother. The perpetual headache that was Sherlock. The great boy genius. The man you kept wanting to surprise you and kept accepting disappointment from. His exit was no exception to the rule.

Earlier, Mycroft had received a text. It read simply, _Leaving with P. in pursuit of J. Be in touch. -SH_

It occurred to him that if the Holmes boys kept insisting on hunting down members of the Moriarty family, this could very well be one of the last real communications he received from Sherlock. He pictured his brother broken, his body destroyed, or worse...things he hadn't thought about in a very long time, Sherlock's mind destroyed, Sherlock back on the drugs, dependent on them, wasting away. All of this was a possibility when dealing with mad men such as these. Sherlock must have realized this too. He knew they were approaching an endgame. But he thought that a brief text was sufficient enough.

Granted, Mycroft was not quite sure what he would have done if Sherlock had shown up to hug him. Whack him with an umbrella and call the psychiatrist, probably.

He sipped his water and yes, he was going to definitely need something stronger. He had started to rise from the chair when a puff of perfume alerted him to Mary's entrance. She looked delectable, even more so now that she had disposed of those unflattering nurse's outfits (pale scrubs suited no one) to wear whatever the hell she pleased, and her smile momentarily distracted him as he sank back down.

"Get you something love?"

"Scotch?" He asked, tempting fate.

She gave him a narrow look (her whole face seemed to thin with skepticism). "You know you aren't supposed to be drinking."

"One small drink." He did not plead, he said it matter of factly.

"I can't maybe...interest you in something else?"

He shook his head. Liquor before sex, most literally.

"Alright." she shrugged, then went off to make him his drink. When she returned, she deposited the drink in his hand and her person in his lap. "What fun would life be if we always did what we were supposed to, right?"

"Indeed." He took his first delicious sip of the mixture.

"Can I ask why you feel like you need it right now? The drink, I mean." She put her head down on his shoulder and managed to keep her eyes on his, her face rapt with attentiveness.

"I was just thinking how nothing ever really changes."

"What do you mean?"

"My brother and I, Dr. Watson and I, Dr. Watson and my brother, this collection of people that I accept as in my life no matter what I do. We're extremely dysfunctional, as you might have noticed. I don't expect that to change, I'm not stupid. I know that I shall never have Sherlock in for tea and a game of chess just because we miss each other. But the three of us, we accomplished something amazing. We saved Jamie from a terrible fate. We delivered justice to an evil man. For a brief moment, we stood as heroes. We were united in a mission to save that boy and ….that should change a person, don't you think? But as I was sitting here I just realized that it didn't. Sherlock and I are still the same as we ever were, as we ever will be, and Dr. Watson, it turns out that this fine doctor that my brother has such affection for is the least heroic out of any of us. If you want proof, well it so happens there is some lovely surveillance footage of him and a woman very much not his wife that leaves nothing to the imagination. Clara, did you meet her? **Clara.** I should do something about it. His wife and I...well obviously we are close, and she deserves better. Jamie deserves better. I want him away from that man. I want him here with me. I may not be a saint but I would never... .." he stopped to shake his head. "But I can't, and I won't, because no one ever really changes. I can topple governments with a snap of my fingers, but I can't fix my own life. So that is why I need a drink, my dear."

When he was finished speaking, as Mary was rubbing her hand over his, he stopped with all this sipping business and he downed the rest of the scotch whole.

.

.

.

72 hours after Mycroft's ruminations, Sherlock, who would tell you he was by far the more thoughtful and pensive out of the two of them, was spitting coffee out and barely missing his shoes.

"Dear God, what is that?"

"Coffee." Pierce said in an apologetic tone.

"No, it isn't. It's sludge. It isn't even sludge, it's some sort of unidentifiable semisolid toxin."

"Sorry, Sherlock, Sir."

"You should go in there and buy another one so I can take it home and experiment on it."

Pierce turned back towards the roadside shop and started to walk before Sherlock called out to him. "I was kidding!"

While they loaded themselves back into the car, Sherlock did as much muttering, sighing and eye-rolling as possible. He had forgotten how much he disliked...people. When he had thought about tracking the leads on Beecher himself, he had in mind the many times he and John had traveled in the course of their investigations. Granted, John was annoyingly punctual, an early riser and he always turned the air down too low, but it was a familiar and effortless thing to work with him. Although somewhere in him he knew that it was not Pierce's fault that he was not John (and that Sherlock needed an assistant, one over the age of 7, who was preoccupied with their family obligations and preferably, did not have a vagina), he still blamed him for it as often as he could.

"Where are we again?" he asked as Pierce drove, which was Sherlock's way of saying 'Are we there yet?'

"Almost to Offenbach. The industrial district is about an hour away. Do you want to go straight to the machine shop, or find a hotel, or we could get a drink, see what kind of information we can pick up from the locals..."

"Fine plan, if you want us to spend the night in a dark alley bleeding from split lips and lacerations." Sherlock cut him off. "Because what undereducated German workers in an economically depressed area, out of work, bored, aggressive and clannish, love is two British men, one obviously their intellectual superior, the other someone clearly employed by the government and passing for a masculine Pippi Longstocking, poking around and asking a lot of questions about criminal activities." He finished with a snort.

"I was just asking, Sir."

"Yes I realize you were just asking, that was why I answered."

Sherlock lapsed into a moody silence which lasted until they were in the city and Pierce needed to know where they were going. He asked as nicely as he could, lots of stammering and Ums in his sentences. Sherlock knew he was being hard on the man but questioned whether or not he was going to be of any use in a combat situation if he was rattled so much by someone's bad mood.

Sherlock clearly had little sense of how strong an effect his bad moods could have on someone's psyche.

"Sir, it's just, if you want me to drop you somewhere I can..."

"No Pierce, you don't need to drop me anywhere, we don't need to fish for information, we have it. Gunter Voss. We know where he lives, we know where his operation is stationed. We go in there, talk to him, and we find out what he knows about James Beecher."

"You think he'll just talk to you?" Pierce asked in disbelief.

"People tend to."

This time, Pierce gave a snort.

"What?"

"Nothing, Sir. It's only, you're really nothing like your brother."

"I've been told."

Since Pierce could not sense that Sherlock did not want to talk about Mycroft, he pressed on. "Mr. Holmes, he would send in an entire team. He'd get all the information he could from any corner he could and only then would he send someone in to approach the target. He's very thorough. You're...you've really got a different way about you. Sir."

"The only thing Mycroft and I share is DNA, and at times I question even that. Don't expect me to act like he would. It will make things a lot easier for you."

"The thing is, sir..."

"If you call me Sir one more time, I am going to take this pen and put it into your eye ball." Sherlock interrupted.

"Sorry, Sherlock. The thing is that Mr. Holmes let me do a lot of paperwork, and research and things, but he would have never let me come with him for something like this. I've got field experience, don't worry, I'm just not used to being allowed to do anything important. So thank you, I guess. For what it's worth, I think your way of doing things is just fine."

Sherlock opened his mouth to comment and then, John's voice was in his head, telling him to for the love of God just be nice for once and if he couldn't do that, then just say thank you and leave it alone.

So, after a long pause, Sherlock said "Thank you." rather stiffly and then lapsed back into his silence, speaking only to argue with the GPS as Pierce drove them to the other side of town.

By the time they go there, the sun had disappeared and been replaced by a dark, gray night sky. Sherlock decided that they would first go to Gunter's house. The chances of involving others was greatly reduced if they started at the primary residence. It also increased the chances of Gunter speaking with Sherlock without too much violence or prodding, he wouldn't have to save face in front of any of his little criminal friends.

When they arrived in the right neighborhood, Sherlock told Pierce to park in front of the house. They weren't trying to hide, he reasoned, and if they did, it would be impossible as this part of the world didn't get many strangers coming through. Pierce agreed, like he had with everything else Sherlock said since their odd interlude. In one unused part of his mind, Sherlock wondered if the younger man had been...hitting on him, as they say. After analysis, he still wasn't sure. He'd have to ask John later.

As they stood at the door, Pierce asked, "Should we knock?"

It was a valid question.

Sherlock raised his hand and rapped his knuckles against the door. His mind explored the possibilities: There would be no one home. There would be someone home but they would not answer. There would be someone home but they would feign ignorance. There would be someone home and they would react badly to the sight of two unknown men. There was a 62% chance that someone would be injured before the night was over, a 9% chance someone would be dead. These figures were all better than the ones Sherlock had come up with for a confrontation directly at the old machine shop where the criminal activities took place.

He had a brilliant mind, it was true, and while his brother may have more experience with this type of government sponsored mayhem, Sherlock was perfectly capable of knowing when things were likely to go wrong. That was why he was dismayed, and annoyed, but not at all surprised when the door opened and he found himself looking not at a forger but rather, at a gun.

.

.

.

The thing about nurses, caregivers, aides, all of those types is that people trust them. When you go to a hospital, you don't know your duty nurses from Adam, but you still are perfectly content to trust them with your medication, your possessions and your life. It was something about the uniform, maybe. Whatever the reason, it was not something that Mary Morstan wouldn't take advantage of.

The thing about beautiful women was pretty much the same. This went thrice for beautiful women who slept with you.

So she had no trouble at all getting Mycroft to take his pills after a few drinks. She didn't know if he had forgotten about mixing them with alcohol, or he just didn't care, but he took them all the same. He shouldn't stop breathing or anything, but he'd wake up with a bitch of a headache. When he woke up, which wouldn't be for about 12 hours, give or take.

Mary wasn't one to waste that time either.

So the next morning, while Mycroft slept (pulse strong, no vomiting, breathing regular, she checked), she quietly slipped out of the house. She could have said she was going to run errands, or see her mother, but it was just easier for him to sleep through it all. He could always deny everything later that way. It was still damp when she left, the sky cloudy, so she slipped on her raincoat and made the journey to the Watson residence.

She told the cabby not to wait, she wasn't sure how long this would take. Any number of things...any, really, could happen. She felt nervous, but excited, as she rang the bell and then listened carefully at the door for footsteps. She made sure her dewy hair, her battered coat and her coaxing smile were all in place when John answered the door.

He looked startled, to say the least. Had she gotten him out of bed? It looked like it. Hair rumpled, still in his sweats, no coffee or tea in his hand. He looked confused too, but that would pass.

"Good morning John!" she said brightly. "Is Molly here?"

"Uh...no, she took the kids to the doctor, Carrie's got an ear infection."

"Excellent." she pushed past him into the house, not waiting for an invitation to enter. Stripping off her coat, she left it on the floor and made her way to the living room where she made herself comfortable on the sofa. John Watson chased her all the way.

"Sorry, what are you doing here? Is Mycroft okay?"

She laughed. "Would you really care if he was?"

"Of course. He's Jamie's father."

"Yes, well, I'm not here to talk about Mycroft. I'm actually more interested in you right now."

"What?" He looked more confused than ever now and yes, slightly alarmed.

"You've been a bad, bad boy John. I didn't know you had it in you. That's a shame, isn't it?"

"Wh...Just...What? Sorry, but, what?"

"If you were going to sleep around anyway, you could have just called. I thought I was pretty clear on that. Maybe I was too subtle? Was I too subtle, John?"

"What?" he said again.

"You. Slept. With. Clara." she said, enunciating each syllable clearly. "In your dead sister's house. I saw the whole thing. Quite a performance."

"Oh God." John said, finally getting it. He slid into a chair helplessly, his body moving like it had no bones.

"Yes, that's what she said."

"Oh God." He covered his face with his hands.

"Did you really think, with everything going on, and everyone watching everyone else, that you could get away with something like that? Or did you just not care?"

"No, I cared! I mean, I've never done anything like that before. Clara and I, we were both lonely and hurting and sometimes people reach out to one another, you see it in the army too, it doesn't mean anything though. It was just one stupid mistake. I love my wife. I love my family. I wouldn't do anything like that to hurt them deliberately. It was just..."

"A moment of weakness? The stress of everything catching up with you? Were you feeling neglected with the new baby at home getting all the attention? Did you just need some kind of confirmation that you were still young and sexy? The usual excuses."

"No, I swear, it was a mistake. I know that."

"I wonder what Molly would say about that."

"Are you...-"

"Going to tell her? It would serve you right. What do you think she would do? Have you thought about it, I mean, really thought about it? Molly, she seems like a lovely woman but she isn't exactly steely, is she? You know, I think, she would just never be able to get over it. Now, maybe you are bored with your marriage, but I'm sure part of you still loves Molly-"

"I **do** love Molly." he said firmly.

"Then could you really destroy her? Because that's what I think this would do. Destroy her. She'd still walk around, talk, smile, but she'd be a ruined person on the inside. Maybe that's being dramatic, I don't know. What do you think?"

"No, please, don't tell Molly. This would kill her."

"You probably should have thought about that before you did it." she replied flatly. He had gone pale. Was he going to faint? She'd like that, but it would draw this whole thing out so needlessly. She had better get to the point.

"I'm not going to tell her." she said. "I'm not going to show her the footage either."

He groaned. The footage. Oh God.

"You're going to do something for me in return, John. It's not going to be easy. Molly won't like it. But if you don't, I'm going to sit your wife down right here, on this couch, and let her watch you fucking Clara, on that TV right over there. Do you understand me?"

"Yes...yes, anything. Just tell me what you want."

"I want Jamie."


	13. Chapter 13

**AERIALS, Chapter 13**

"Would it surprise you to learn that this is not, in fact, the first time I've had a gun pointed at me?" Sherlock asked calmly. "It isn't even the first time this month."

The man holding the gun, blond, small and puglike, all nostrils, twitched just a little bit and then cocked the trigger of the firearm loudly. "Would it be the first time you've been shot?" he asked, his accent heavy and his voice deep.

"No. Sorry. So since you're not going to pop my cherry, put the gun away and let's talk about why I'm here."

"Or I could just fire."

"Yes, but if that is your plan you're wasting precious time." Sherlock had the audacity to check his watch after he said this. "After all, you spent the day at your job club, only now just got home, and you still need to walk the dog before you head out to the disused machine shop where your forgery operation is located. You have a large order from some Russian mobsters that I am sure you need to get started on as soon as possible. Also," he added just to show off, "you're diabetic and your favorite color is plum."

"Who **are** you?"

"That's a shame. I thought surely my reputation would have preceded me by now."

"Alright, funny man, joke's over."

Sherlock was sure, well, fairly sure, that Gunter was going to fire the weapon. His body tensed as he prepared to spring out of the line of fire. But he never got to. Just as he was about to deliver one last verbal blow before fleeing, there was a loud crack behind him and Gunter dropped the weapon. This poor gun safety likely had a lot to do with him dropping to the floor and grasping his foot while he yowled like a cat giving birth.

Sherlock looked behind him. "The foot?"

Pierce shrugged, re-holstering his weapon and moving with Sherlock to get Gunter into the house and the door shut behind them. "He can still answer questions that way. He'll live, but boy is he going to be unhappy. He'll probably tell us anything he knows just so he can get to a doctor."

Sherlock almost told him that was good thinking but firstly, that was obvious and secondly, he didn't want to start complimenting the other man. He might think it meant something.

They worked together to haul him by his shoulders back inside and then bolt the door. Once that was accomplished, Sherlock directed and Pierce dragged Gunter into the kitchen where he was unceremoniously dropped onto the linoleum.

"Gun." Sherlock said, holding out his hand.

Pierce handed over the gun and started searching cabinets while Sherlock knelt down next to the injured man. He had not screamed yet, not exactly. Possibly, he was in shock. Sherlock doubted that a gunshot would be enough to bring the neighborhood to a boil but he didn't want to test that too much.

"Gunter, I need you to listen to me. You've been shot. It's a minor wound, but it could become quite serious if not treated soon. Infection. Scarring. Blood loss...well, I'm sure you know all about the nasty things that could happen. So it is in your best interest to tell me what I want to know, letting us both get on with our evenings. Do you understand?"

The German nodded.

"I want to know about James Beecher. I want to know where he is."

"I don't kno-"

"Don't waste my time telling me you don't know him. I'm in the possession of some forged documents that point directly to you, so unless he got them via mail order, you know him."

Gunter shook his head, his face blanched in pain. "I know nothing."

A sigh. "You're going to make this difficult, aren't you?" No reply came, but truthfully, Sherlock didn't really expect one. "Pierce, see if you can fetch me a knife."

.

.

.

Later, somewhere in an anonymous hotel room in a city large enough for them to blend in, Sherlock laid in bed typing a text to John. He was freshly showered, and the clothes he had worn sadly had been disposed of. But it was worth it. Each bruise, each insult and every small pain had been worth it for the information he had gotten.

Gunter had been, as they say, a tough nut to crack. But once he was split open, the information poured out. He was at heart a simple man with simple worries, he feared for his family. He didn't want to go to prison. He didn't want to die. Sherlock had dealt with these excuses for crime for long enough that he knew how to navigate them. Reassurance. Lies. Threats. Some blood spilled.

It had been Pierce, not he, who had stopped it. A small cough, a hand on his shoulder, and a voice telling him that it was enough. They had what they needed. Even if he had planned it ahead of time, Sherlock could not have been more pleased with the result. No matter how much Gunter might fear Beecher, he now feared Sherlock more, although from what he had told them about Beecher, the German obviously thought of him as a devil.

He had called him a devil. With slices running across the palms of his hands, he had told them that Beecher was the devil. The brother, he had said, was the only thing that held him back.

"He is a devil, a hell hound. The brother, he was the leash. The brother is gone now. So the dog is off it's leash, you understand me? He doesn't care how important you are, it doesn't matter to him if you're useful or not, he will kill you. Look at him wrong, and he kills you. Mr. Aiden was a patient man, he would wait forever for his plans. James, not the same. Always, Mr. Aiden would tell James to wait, tell him what was wise. But all he wanted was blood.

After Mr. Aiden was gone, the woman tried to control him. Aiden's wife. She was with him the way she was with his brother. But it wasn't enough. She tried to control him and he wound up controlling her. He works for her now."

"What is her name?" Sherlock asked. Moriarty had not been married, not in any official way under any identity Sherlock had found, but he was not willing to discount the information.

"Adler, Miss Irene. She works for Mr. Beecher now. But she's afraid of him."

"I see." Sherlock made a mental note, several in fact.

"You should be afraid of him too."

Now that Sherlock had time to digest all he had taken in, he wondered about Irene Adler. Beecher's lover. Could Sherlock use Irene against him? To force a sort of truce perhaps, you kill my loved ones and I'll kill yours? Or if she was afraid of him, as Gunter said, maybe he could even turn her and make her a weapon against Beecher. She had to be found, there was no question, and it might be easier to catch her than him.

It was a start. It was a lead. It was more than what he had this morning. It was all worth it. So why could he not get out of his head the idea of John disapproving of him right now?

_John _he typed _I have a clue. It's all going to be fine. _

No. He deleted that. Too sentimental.

_John _he began again _I think I might have gone too far this time. _

Delete.

_John – I hurt someone today. It was for information, but I enjoyed it. Lecture me because I know you want to. _

Delete.

He had just started typing, again, when his phone vibrated in his hand. John had sent him a text of his own.

_Sherlock – Come home. JW_

_Busy. SH _

_Don't care. Now. Next flight. JW _

_Is everything alright? SH _

_What do you think? JW _

_Don't be obtuse. SH _

_Jamie, Mycroft, Molly all fine. No one is dead. JW _

_Then what is so urgent? SH _

_I don't want to say. JW _

_I have a lead on Beecher. SH _

_Come anyway. JW _

_Tell me what's wrong. SH _

_I made a mistake. JW _

_Stop being vague and just tell me. SH _

It took a few minutes for John to reply and Sherlock contemplated getting up, tossing his clothes in his bag and leaving that very minute. Flight schedules ran through his mind. He didn't want to go. He was a selfish, craven man but if John said that he needed him, he would.

No reply yet. Should he call? No, he would wait 9 minutes first. Exactly 9... 8:57... 8:56. ...

2:31... 2:30. …

_S- Nevermind. JW_

Sherlock frowned deeply. What the hell did that mean? What the hell had happened? If there was one thing that solidly annoyed him, it was feeling ignorant. Sitting up, he reached across Pierce to the nightstand and snatched his watch and his cigarettes. In the middle of something exciting, a break in the case, of course, and here John was throwing a hissy fit.

Stirred by the motion of Sherlock's arm brushing over him, Pierce blinked his eyes. Even though he was focusing on Sherlock, he seemed half asleep still. "What's going on? Are we leaving?"

"No, I...No." He decided. "In the morning, make some calls. I need all the information possible on this Irene Adler. Official and unofficial. Every conduct mark. Every dirty picture. Every single thing."

"Yessir."

"Don't call me Sir."

"Yessir."

"And go back to sleep." he practically snapped.

"Yessir."

John would call him if something had truly happened. It was most likely the baby with an infection or ear mites or something else dreadful and frightening to a parent but normal human stuff. It may have been Jamie, perhaps he was physically fine but there were more behavior issues. It could have even been Mary. Maybe John had gotten drunk and done something stupid, now he needed a shoulder to cry on. These were all things that might panic a man but would pass if given time.

If it was important, John would call.


	14. Chapter 14

**AERIALS, Chapter 14**

Mycroft Holmes was doing very important work.

Everything he did, of course, was important. He practically ran the government, at the very least they had been utterly lost during his convalescence, he also had his fingers in the pies of several other countries as well. Business interests. Military contacts. Banking investments. There was not a breath he took from morning till night that was wasted on something frivolous.

So while it may have appeared to the casual observer that he was playing Angry Birds on his phone, surely this was just a cover for something covert and much more serious. It simply had to be.

"Ha, you're mine now..." he muttered.

"What was that?"

Ah, yes, shimmer scent of sex and jasmine perfume, all the usual slink and swagger. Mary. She should know by now that it was pointless trying to sneak up on him. "Nothing, just checking my stocks...what's the matter?" He had turned in his chair to look at her and the expression she wore was one of worried apprehension. She was clutching the house phone to her chest like it was a baby bird.

"Molly Watson is on the phone for you. She sounds upset." Mary added. "**Very** upset."

He took the phone from her and waved her away. She backed up a respectful five steps, so he had the illusion of privacy. Mycroft put the phone to his ear and took a deep breath.

"Hello?"

"My-mycroft?"

"Molly, what's happened?" he asked calmly.

"It's John, he...he...he was drunk, I think, and he drinks but he's never dr-dr-drunk like this. He was so angry and th-th-th-then he..." she stopped talking and his stuttering explanations turned into full blown sobbing. Mycroft tried to ask her several more times what had happened but got nothing.

"Molly, listen to me. I'm coming over. I'll be there shortly. Whatever's wrong, just hang on, alright?"

He heard more crying but nothing that might have been a yes or a no or an okay. It took him less than three minutes to get his shoes, say goodbye to Mary, get the car and be on the road. He would have called for a taxi or at least gotten someone to drive him but time was of the essence. He didn't even realize until he was a good ten minutes away that he had forgotten his tie.

True to his word, Mycroft was at Molly's house slightly faster than humanly possible. He was nearly ravenous with curiosity and worry by the time he arrived. He raced up to the door and rapped his knuckles against it, not waiting for an answer before barging in.

"Molly? Molly, where are you?"

He heard a whimper from the bedroom. He ran for it and had the door been shut he would have kicked it in. Luckily, it was opened for him to see Molly sitting on the bed, her legs crossed primly.

She was

_crying for at least three hours, look at the puffiness around the eyes, she also wasn't wearing that sweater when she began. She tossed it on later, look at the collar. The sleeves were damp so she was using it as a handkerchief. Something was very wrong with her emotionally, but there were no obvious wounds. No smell of blood. She was virginal. No physical attack then. The way her legs were crossed said fight with the husband, if he hadn't already known that. But she was unharmed and so was the room and the house that he had seen, no broken dishes or holes in the wall. A terrific shouting match then. But what had been the cause? _

looking up at him as he came in, her eyes big and dewy. She looked relieved that he was there, then frightened and finally embarrassed when he approached her.

"Is Jamie alright?" he asked, knowing the answer but wanting to get it out of the way.

"He's at Cicel's house."

"And Carrie?"

"Down for her nap. Sleeps like the de-ed-ead."

"John has gone?"

She nodded.

"Should I..." he looked around. "Should I make some tea?"

"No, thank you."

"Well then, if the children are alright, John doesn't need ousting and I can't make tea, there leaves little to be done but for you to tell me what the matter is."

He sat down next to her, careful to keep a few inches between them, and waited. She sniffled, then wept, then went back to sniffling. "John and I had a fight."

"About what?"

"I think it was about Jamie."

"You think? You aren't sure?"

"He said it was about Jamie, but I thi-think that it was one of those fights where you aren't actually fighting about what you're really fighting about."

"I...see." he answered carefully (he did not see in the least). "What was said about Jamie?"

"John was saying that now, we have Carrie and he's just been thinking that it isn't fa-fair for him to have to raise someone else's son and raise Carrie like they're the same to him." she spat it out and then covered her mouth, as if she couldn't believe what she was saying.

"I see." Mycroft said again, but there were volumes implied in the quiet way he spoke the words.

"I'm sure, I mean, I know he didn't...he loves Jamie. I know he does. Ja-Jamie's his son to him, he always has been. I know we were going to have some time for just me and John before everything happened, with you, and everything, but then...then stuff has just been strange. I thought it was because his sister died. He hasn't...I mean, we haven't-n't really, since before all of that, we haven't had..."

"I get the picture." he said grimly. Molly did not know, he thought. She was lost, confused, not knowing why her husband didn't seem to want her. He could fix that. Just a little slip and she'd know, then she could decide for herself what to do with the information. It would only take a breath, only a whisper really.

Yes and then he, Mycroft Holmes, would be the one who told her. He would watch how she toppled and know he was the cause. He took that thought like a snake and stamped on it until it died on his lips. No, he mustn't tell.

"He wants Jamie to live with you." she said, cutting through his clouded thoughts like a knife.

"What?"

"He told me he wants Jamie to live wi-with you. He doesn't want him here." As she told him, she started crying anew, great heaving sobs. "I don't know what to d-d-d-do."

Without permission, and certainly without asking, Molly launched herself into Mycroft's chest and he was forced to hold onto her, lest she fall off the bed. Thinking of Mary, he was acutely aware of Molly's face against his heart and her hair just under his nose. She smelled like apples today. Mary, he told himself, **Mary. **

But he couldn't just push her away, screaming Back, Foul She-Demon! So he let her cry and he tried to occupy his mind. What could John have been thinking? Had he finally cracked under it all? Maybe it was guilt. That quite satisfied Mycroft. Yes, guilt. Still, his actions, doing this, it hardly seemed logical... here he met that murky area of emotion that he did not quite grasp, even less so than Sherlock sometimes, because he could not imagine or understand putting those he loved in such torment without a damn good reason. So what was going on? He would have to speak to John, if he could corner the bastard, and get answers.

Finally she was again quiet, and his arm was both asleep and trapped. He let her take the lead, and for awhile she just was quiet against him, breathing slowly, thinking, before she finally said, "I did it all wrong."

"Don't be ridiculous, what did you do wrong?"

"Jamie, John, everything. I always make the wrong decision, always. If only I had done things differently."

"What things?"

"Well...you. I mean, I don't mean to say that you wanted anything, or that you would have wanted, but I could have asked. You were so good about Jamie and such help and I didn't even really think about it at all, I just ran off with my handsome doctor and look what's happened to everyone because of that. If I had only just thought...but now, now there's Carrie and there's Jamie and John. I love John." she insisted. "I just want him to b-be happy and it seems like he isn't happy with me at all."

"Doctor Watson is being idiotic. There is no other word. How could someone not be happy with you?"

She was quiet again, and for a minute she didn't even breathe. "And everything else?"

_Molly if you want come live with me in my big empty house and we'll raise Jamie if you'd like. I could have a family, like a normal man. I always thought it beyond me. I was always running ahead, gathering power and favors and secrets, trying so hard to make myself exceptional that I never got to do anything normal. How could I, with Sherlock as a brother, with my parents bringing me up? I had to make something of myself because otherwise, how would I matter at all? How could I protect Sherlock? But I could let go of everything now, let's be boring and normal together..._

_And Mary... _

He couldn't just cast Mary aside. It was not a fairytale, but she mattered to him, she put up with him, she was faithful to him. Besides that, what Molly was saying now was not what she would think in the morning, or next week. She was hurt and frightened and sad. She felt undesirable and wanted reassurance. She didn't actually want **him**.

"Here is what we are going to do." he said, smoothing her hair. In an instant, Mycroft who was an unloved fat little boy and just wanted what everyone wants was gone. He was replaced by Mycroft Holmes, government mastermind, who did not have time for such worries. He took control. "Jamie is going to come stay with Mary and I, just for now. You and John need to take time together right now, and a boy shouldn't have to watch his parents muddle through such things. I am sure that John will regret what he said. Grieving for his sister, worrying for his family, Moriarty, Beecher, all of this has taken its toll and he is simply not himself. It will all clear up. You and John will be as in love as you ever were, and then when you're ready, Jamie can come back to stay with you. Until then, he will be loved and cared for. Yes?"

"Okay, if that's what you think it best."

"Just for now."

She moved away from him finally, and he was relieved. She wiped at her eyes, ran her hands through her hair and transformed, just as Mycroft had. She rebuilt herself into a calm creature, and Mycroft reminded himself that Molly really was made of steel. She simply didn't know it. "I'll call John tomorrow. He should just stay away for tonight, I think."

"I should go."

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have even called."

"Nonsense. It's what I'm here for."

"John and I will talk to Jamie and then, he can stay with you again. I feel terrible, the way he is always shuffled around. What must he think?"

"He thinks that he has infinite people who love him." Mycroft replied, leaving her in the bedroom and seeing himself out. He allowed himself one deep sigh as he stood outside, then he got in the car.

He had been that close. He could have touched it. He could have touched her. Now, it was all gone. Because he had to try and do the right thing. He could very much sympathize with people who just didn't bother.

For all of it, John Watson, the adulterer, like Mycroft's parents, he would get the reward of Molly. He got a wife. But Mycroft, for now...

Well, possibly longer...

He got a son.


	15. Chapter 15

**AERIALS, Chapter Fifteen**

Molly herself had said it, she felt bad the way Jamie was always going from one adult to another. But like Molly, Jamie was made of stronger stuff than one might think by looking at him. When he was dropped off at Mycroft's with his plaid suitcase, he was calm and cheery while it was Molly who was holding back tears.

Honestly, he couldn't figure out why all the grown-ups were standing around stiffly, blinking at each other. "Father, guess what! Mom says if I am really good while I'm staying with you, I can have a new chemistry set!...Hullo Miss Morstan." he added politely.

"Hi Jamie." She looked at Mycroft, then Molly, then back to the boy. "Let's go put your things away, okay?"

Jamie had his suitcase and still silent, Molly and Mycroft watched him walk to Mary and take her hand, allowing himself to be led away. It seemed significant, although no one could have said why. When he was out of earshot, Molly started talking. "Thank you again, for everything. Jamie's very excited, he says it will be like camp, even though he wouldn't really know because he's never been to camp. Should we send him to camp, do you think? Is that something important for boys? Well there's not really time before school anyway but maybe next year, not that I think he'll still be here next year, or anything, but, still, it would be partly your decision. Did you ever do summer things, when you were little? Because I don't want him to miss out on important things, not after everything...anyway, he's very excited. John and I talked to him and he doesn't think anything is wrong at all. Really he's such a good kid. I don't deserve him."

When she finally had to stop to breath, Mycroft asked her, in his most careful tone, how John was. That set her off again.

"He's...fine. Better. I think he feels silly already, he just won't say so. I know he is going to miss Jamie like crazy and then everything will go back to normal. I know it will. We just, we need time, and he's been through so much, and knowing that Jamie's father was, well, you-know-who, I mean he never really got to process it and it's a lot to take in. It just got to be too much. So this will be a nice little break, just us and the baby and she's so quiet and so good it will almost be like just the two of us, and then, once things are settled Jamie can come back. Thank you so much."

"Yes, you said thank you. Calm down Molly, it's going to be alright."

"Right." She searched frantically for a change of subject. "Have you talked to Sherlock at all?"

"Yes. He and Pierce, that's the gentleman he's traveling with, I think you might have met him once, helping me with some office things, in any case, Pierce and he have made some headway. There've also been other interesting...developments, between those two."

"Sorry?" she asked, not following.

"Well he hasn't come out and said but I do believe that my dear brother finds himself in a romantic entanglement."

It bloomed slowly on her face as she understood. "Oh, you mean...? He told you that?"

"Of course not. He never tells me anything of the sort. But a brother knows."

"That's..." she hesitated, not wanting to laugh. "Um, good for him?"

Mycroft smiled, and she smiled, and then she did laugh. By the time she left, she really did think that maybe, just possibly, everything might be alright eventually. She realized afterward that she had meant to apologize to Mycroft for some of the things that she had said but she had forgotten to. Hopefully he had just forgotten what she said then. He seemed happy, with Mary, although like Sherlock he had not ever come right out and said that he was involved with her. But Molly thought they really made a perfect pair.

While Molly and Mycroft were gossiping, Mary had taken Jamie to his room and was watching him open his suitcase on the bed and take out clothes with a depressing amount of routine and familiarity. He did seem to have a system for it, and Mary wondered if he had the same for when he got shuffled off to his mother's house. Well, John's house anyway.

She had to respect the deft manner in which John Watson had handled his predicament. She had hoped for the best, but planned for the worst: his refusing, him telling Molly, or Sherlock, or worst of all, Mycroft. So it was a pleasant surprise that he had gone home, played the bastard and shipped the child off to Mycroft, all without his wife being the wiser to it. She also noticed that John had avoided speaking to Mycroft or even being in the same room with him, which he could cleverly say was because of not wanting Jamie, but Mary knew was because he didn't trust himself against Mycroft's deductive powers.

John Watson, clever man. It was almost a shame he had pitted himself against Mycroft and Mary. Together, they were so powerful. Together they could accomplish nearly anything, all Mycroft needed was her by his side, and he didn't even realize it...

But now wasn't the time to gloat. More important things to do now. She sat down on the bed next to Jamie's suitcase. "Mycroft is very excited to have you here."

"I know. He always is."

"I am too. I hope we can be friends, Jamie."

Jamie put away his striped tee shirt and turned to her. He was smiling at the compliment, but his head tilted to the side as he thought about this woman, Mary, and her statement, and her place. For that moment, he resembled his real father more than he would ever care to know. His eyes narrowed just a touch. "You're having sex with my father. You want me to like you because you like what's going on and you want it to stay that way. But don't pretend you want to be my friend. Adults are always pretending. I wish you would just stop it."

Mary sat up a little straighter. "Alright. I won't pretend. But I really am glad you're here."

"Someone should be." he said coldly. The harsh words coming out of his mouth didn't match his tiny frame or happy face.

"Really? Well now whose pretending? Because I would bet you a fiver that your father thinks you are thrilled to be here."

"Mom and Dad had a fight. Dad doesn't want me at their house anymore, so Mom trades me like I'm a pokemon. I'm thrilled. Yippee."

"Mycroft doesn't think you know about that."

"Father is sick. He doesn't need to know." Jamie told her in a tone that implied it was a command.

"Your Mom..."

"You don't talk about my Mom." he said, cutting her off. Jamie returned to unpacking his suitcase of the new favorite clothes and toys he had acquired since the last time he stayed there. Mary watched him silently. Molly, Mycroft and John Watson all perceived Jamie as a happy little boy, blessed with a resilience to keep bouncing back from parents getting shot, people threatening his life and adults flitting in and out of his existence like dreams. Maybe this child was a better actor than any of them, if that was not really the case.

Most importantly, he had told her part of this performance was for Mycroft's sake. Jamie understood that his father was ill and didn't want Jamie's sadness at being abandoned to weigh onto his heart. A noble sacrifice from someone who still needed a step stool to reach the bathroom basin. It was almost enough to make Mary tell him the truth.

Instead, Mary spoke to him like he was an equal, the way that Mycroft tended to. "Alright. I'll make you a deal. I won't tell Mycroft how unhappy you are, if you will do one thing for me."

"What's that?" Jamie asked wearily.

"Believe me when I say that we are on the same side. I really do want to be your friend, and I'm not asking you to understand why yet, or to even want to be my friend back. Just agree to give me a chance, okay?"

She held out her hand to him and Jamie approached her and then finally, shook it. "Deal."


	16. Chapter 16

** chapter 16**

"Sherlock, I think I found something!"

Pierce, with all the grace of an excited puppy, had sprung up from where he had been curled up in the chair with his computer and dashed through the apartment trying to find his...boss, assignment, subject, lover, etc so he could share the news with him.

They has been in Saratoga Springs for almost six weeks, following the Adler lead. Sherlock had informed him that they would be two gentleman vacationing, there to enjoy the racetrack that was a local attraction and the class of people who thought themselves patrons of the sport. Since privacy and safety was becoming an issue, Sherlock insisted on an apartment instead of a hotel. It gave them a base of operations to work from, more control over their environment and a feeling of safety Pierce had to admit he hadn't had since they had roughed up the forger.

Nothing spectacularly brutal had happened, but after a visit to a discreet doctor, the man had disappeared. When Sherlock and Pierce returned to his house to see if there was more evidence to be found, it was abandoned in the strongest sense. Boards were across the windows. Peering between them, Pierce had been able to see that the building was entirely cleared out. Not a spec of furniture, not even a spec of dust remained. The impossibly empty house scared him very badly, even if he couldn't explain why.

They left the city swiftly after that, and the next hotel room they stayed in was obviously rifled through while they were out. It could have been coincidence, it could have been thieves, but all the same...

People who took chances wound up dead, there were no two ways about it.

Sherlock was also troubled by news from home, or lack thereof. He spoke with his brother and Doctor Watson frequently via text messages, but Pierce had noted a tendency for him to grip his phone until his knuckles turned white or start muttering angrily while he was talking to them. When Pierce had finally gotten the courage to ask what was wrong, Sherlock replied, "Nothing. They say everything is fine. Jamie is staying with Mycroft. Mycroft's health is improving. John's infant is doing normal things that John is idiotically pleased with. All fine. All **norma**l." He spat the last word out like it tasted foul.

"So? Everything's fine, isn't that a good thing?"

"Ha." He scoffed, visibly. His whole body was consumed by the motion of his scoffing. "Don't be absurd. Nothing is ever just fine with my family. They're keeping something from me."

"Maybe...everything really is just fine. Sir." He added for good measure.

Sherlock gave him such a scathing look that he hadn't dared speak to him for three days after that. He just nodded and shook his head. That was the last time Pierce had asked, but Sherlock's behavior hadn't changed. Pierce knew he was speaking with the loved ones back home by how many times he said "Moron." under his breath while he typed.

Pierce had tracked, fairly easily actually, Irene Adler to her birth in Saratoga Springs and that was where they had set off to. She hadn't lived there in some time, not officially, but Sherlock told him that if she were to go to ground, if she was frightened or needed to hide, this was where she would go, so that was where they went. They didn't find Adler herself, but they were able to speak to those that knew her. After taking the time to ensure their cover story was in place (Sherlock had waited five days), they had visited her mother.

Mrs. Lilith Langtry lived in a stately house (white columns and all) down a cobbled path close to the park and fully in view of all the best of society. They were shown into her sitting room by a young maid, who didn't look them in the eye and offered them a variety of beverages. From the gilt edges of the coffee table to the painting above the fireplace, everything about the residence didn't just scream taste, it beat you in the face with it. The mistress of the house herself was no exception, appearing to them in silk dressed, her thick gray hair pinned neatly into place and emeralds on her fingers and in her lobes. She spoke with the crisp, clipped accent of upper crust America and offered them the same list of drinks that the maid had.

"No, thank you, it's honor enough that you took the time to see us." Sherlock said. Or Not-Sherlock. This was him playing a part. He was dashing and a bit caddy and smiled graciously as he spoke.

"You told me you were friends of Irene." Mrs. Langtry replied.

"Yes, we met her in Paris, Pierce and I. It was...years ago, I can't keep track, but she told us that if we were ever in Saratoga we simply had to look up her mother and see her spectacular house. She didn't lie."

"Irene was always fond of this place. We bought it after she went to boarding school, so I suppose she felt like a guest here when she came home."

"See Pierce, I told you it was boarding school. She had such good manners, and the accent, of course..."

"Yes. My second husband insisted. He was right, she turned out beautifully, I must say. Before all the trouble."

"Trouble?" Sherlock looked suitably baffled. "I'm sorry..."

"It wasn't her at all. It was that man. Many a young girl has been led astray by a charming man, I'm sure I don't need to tell you. My Irene was a bright, lovely girl with a brilliant future, until she met him. The lowlife. A common criminal. No parents to speak of. You could tell what he was after."

"She was alone when we..."

"He was probably in prison. Likely. Hopefully. Trash. Sure enough she showed up here with one in the oven, saying he had run out on her and expecting me...but goodness, where are my manners? You didn't come here to listen to my sad little stories. Can I get you gentleman anything? Coffee, something stronger? We've got the best Brandy, my husband brought it back from aboard."

"No, thank you." They said, for now the third time.

Sherlock had been manic, practically salivating by the time they left the woman's house. A child. He said that explained so much, although he wouldn't explain to Sherlock exactly what it explained. Since then, Pierce had been a slave to finding out more about the child. Now, he had something. So he was running through the apartment until he found Sherlock, smoking on the balcony.

"Sherlock, I found it!" Pierce excitedly threw his arms around the taller man and briefly put his face against his neck, where it smelled like smoke and tea.

He was shoved away by Sherlock after a moment. "Pierce, how many times must I explain this?"

"But-"

"You do not touch me. If I touch you, that is fine. If I choose to touch you, it is fine. I will do it in private and only when it becomes physically necessary. But you do not touch me. Are we clear?"

"Yes, but...Sherlock, I found something!"

"About the child?" he asked, beginning to share Pierce's excitement.

"Yes. It took me nearly forever and I had to talk to all these miserable old goats and goat-esses but I managed to narrow down what happened and when."

"Tell me. From the beginning. I need to absorb."

He went past Pierce, not touching him, and into the apartment, seating himself in the nearest chair and looking at him expectantly. "Begin."

"Eleven years ago, May. Irene Adler comes home to her mother. Momma, I'm in trouble. We already know she was the companion of Moriarty at that time, so he's the father but instead of using his connections or assets to take care of her, he ships her home. The pregnancy was unintended, at least on his part." Pierce started, going through all the information they already had, most of which Sherlock had deduced from the evidence they gathered. "Mrs. Langtry sent her off to visit with her sick Aunt, as they say. That's where we had lost the trail. She doesn't have an aunt, and they didn't mean that she actually went to stay with an aunt, so where did she go?"

"Where indeed?" Sherlock asked, in a tone that implied he would strangle Pierce if he didn't deliver something really brilliant.

"Her mother sent her to stay with the mother's old college roommate in Atlanta." Pierce said proudly.

"Interesting. Is there more, I hope?"

"Yes! She didn't stay put. Irene Adler falls off the map at that point until she shows up three years later in Milan, singing with an opera company. So between getting knocked up and playing the soprano, she didn't exist. That's because she was traveling as Rebecca Huntington. Her mother was an Adler when she was married to Irene's father, and she's a Langtry now, but the stepfather who insisted on boarding school was Arthur Huntington, of the Boston Huntingtons. So she used her middle name and her stepfather's name, ran away from her mother's keepers and went to New Orleans. From there, Rebecca Huntington goes away." Pierce paused as he thought the next part was actually fairly brilliant, and he thought that even Sherlock might be impressed. "Around this time in New Orleans, there was a scandal with a company employee who made off with a shipment of raw ores being brought in to the country by Expeditors International. Thousands of dollars. No one ever saw him again. And his name was Martin John Mori, which is an a-"

"Anagram for Jim Moriarty. Yes, I'd gotten that."

"People were very impressed by him. Charming guy who transferred in, made off with the money and took off, him and his young wife. Pregnant young wife."

"I see."

"Now, there were no official charts or records still, but I did find out that the police on the original investigation spoke with staff at the Ochsner Medical Center, where Mrs. Mori was admitted. In. Labor."

"I think you may have it Pierce."

Pierce beamed for a minute or so and then his smile fell. "But there's more."

"Tell me."

"The baby died, Sherlock. There was some kind of problem with its lungs. It died the day before the robbery took place and the couple disappeared. They didn't even stay to uh...to..."

"To claim the body." he finished for him.

"Right."

"So Irene Adler was a young, innocent woman in her sexual peak seduced by Jim Moriarty, according to her mother. She fell under his sway and became with child. She went home to her mother, indicating that the child was either not welcomed by Moriarty or entirely unknown to him. Mother sends her away because she couldn't bear the shame. Either Moriarty or Irene is weak, one of them reaches out to the other one and they reconcile. Moriarty tells her to come to New Orleans with him. Maybe he steals her away. Maybe she runs away. Either way, they are a perfect young couple looking forward to parenthood, for as long as the con needs it. Then, something happens. Did she go into labor naturally? Did she take something to bring it about? More importantly, was it her idea to go into labor just when the robbery was to occur? Maybe Moriarty thought it would put them above suspicion. Then, once the job is done, we are to believe that they abandoned their dead baby and ran for the hills."

"What, you don't think they did?"

"Pierce. You are so young." Sherlock shook his head. "What makes you think the child really died?"

"You mean this is a cover up wrapped in a cover up wrapped in a cover up?"

"Either that or there is a tragic history of dead children and the people working to terrorize my nephew. I'm not comfortable leaving that a question, are you?"

"No, I guess not."

"So you know what comes next then."

"New Orleans."

Again, Sherlock breezed by him, but this time it was to pack. New Orleans indeed.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock Fanfiction by hrlyqin, based on properties owned by their respective creators

**Chapter 17 **

Believe that we are on the same side.

That was what she asked of him, pretty much all that she asked of him. But adults said things like that all the time, at least in his world. They said great big things to you then ran around doing small, stupid things themselves. So he tried to trust Mary, but was she just someone else who was going to care about him for their own reasons?

He was so sick of that.

She kept her word, at least, about not telling Father that Jamie knew pretty much everyone was lying to him. If she had told, he would have killed her. Father was just starting to really get better. He wasn't so scary skinny anymore, and he smiled more, and he didn't do that thing where he just stared off into space and then forgot what was going on quite so much anymore. He didn't know if that was because Jamie was here, or because Mary was here. Father liked Mary a lot. It sort of made him want to throw up, because they were just like Mum and Dad used to be. Always sneaking off into corners to rub against each other where they thought Jamie couldn't see. Giving each other big googly eyed looks. It was called **being in love**, he was pretty sure, and it seemed gross to him but Father seemed to like it.

He didn't know if Mum and Dad were like that anymore. He had seen Mum, and she did that lying thing where she said everything was fine. She had brought Carrie with her, which Jamie wished she hadn't, and when Jamie asked how Dad was, she hugged him so hard he couldn't breathe properly. She said everything was fine, Dad was fine, just fine, and he missed him. Jamie had wanted to tell her to just tell him the truth already, but he didn't want her to start crying.

So Mum was lying about Dad not wanting him. Dad had lied about everything when he had been telling Jamie how much he loved him and how he was his son, no matter what. It turned out, Jamie was his son until he had a baby of his own that was actually his and kind of looked like him. Then Jamie was an old sofa you tossed out on the curb. Both big fat liars. He knew his Father was a lair because he had so many secrets, and secrets meant lying. His teacher was a liar because she was always smiling and telling people how pretty their pictures were, even when they were ugly.

Uncle Sherlock had told him that everybody lies. He hadn't even said, all grown ups lie, he had said everybody. He had said it awhile ago when Dad still loved Jamie so Dad had gotten angry and yelled "Dammit Sherlock can you just let him enjoy being a kid for awhile?" Jamie remembered it because Uncle Sherlock had rolled his eyes and made a face at Dad when he turned his back.

Looking into his bedroom mirror, Jamie practiced rolling his eyes. He wasn't as good at it as Uncle Sherlock, but he was getting better. "Everybody lies." he said to his reflection.

So what was Mary lying about? Jamie had been testing her systematically, writing down notes in his journal after each conversation, trying to see what she would lie to him about. He had started by asking her more about Father. A few days after he started staying there, he had cornered Mary in the kitchen and asked her, "Do you love my father?"

"Why do you ask?" had been her answer.

"Because he's old and he's sick and he doesn't need to waste his time. So do you love Father or do you kiss everybody you work for?"

She at first looked a little surprised at his answer, then puffed out her cheeks in thought. "Well, he's not old, first of all."

"I said he was old, I didn't ask if he was old." Jamie corrected.

"He isn't old, and he's not so sick anymore. Do you know why he was sick, Jamie?"

"His brain got messed up after the bad man came to the house and scared me. He couldn't remember stuff and his heart was broken. Now he's got pills to take to fix all of that."

"Can you tell me about the bad man?"

"I will if you answer my question." he had countered.

"Okay. But it's complicated, so don't make faces at me if it doesn't make sense to you." She told him. "I don't know if I love Mycroft. I care about him a lot. That's enough for me and I think it makes him happy. He knows how I feel."

"Why don't you love him?"

"It's hard for me to love people. It's hard for Mycroft too."

"Why?"

"For me? Because a lot of people just want to hurt you. Sometimes it seems like the entire world. So after you get hurt, and you get hurt, and you get hurt, you don't want to feel things like love anymore."

"What about Father?"

She shrugged. "Because love makes you weak. I answered your question. Answer mine."

"The bad man came to the house and said he would hurt Father. I tried to tell him Father wasn't home but he called me a liar. He said he would cut Mum's eyes out if I didn't give something to Father. He seemed..." Jamie struggled for a word.

"Were you afraid of him?"

"Yes. He seemed...like the other man. Jim. But crazier."

That had been the first time Jamie tried it, and not only did she not lie to him really, but he had said more than he really wanted to about the bad man and Jim. Jamie didn't really talk about that stuff. He couldn't remember a lot of when his father had fought the man named Jim on top of the waterfall. He tried sometimes, late at night, but the memories just seemed gone. After that first time, Jamie found out this was something he could talk to Mary about if he felt like it. So not only was she not a liar so far, but she listened to him and didn't treat him like a kid, which was always a big plus.

But he wasn't convinced yet. So he tried again, and again. The last time, he had tried to pick something he was pretty sure would be a 'sensitive subject' as his mother would say. This time, she was out in the backyard, bent over the rosebushes, when Jamie walked up to her and observed "You've got scars behind your ears."

She turned to face him and touched her skin where he had mentioned. "Yep, I sure do."

"How did you get them?"

She sighed, and for a second reminded him of Mum. "Do you ever run out of questions, Jamie?"

"Nope." he replied, smiling triumphantly. This was going to be it. She would lie, and then he would be right that she was just as useless as all the others. He wasn't sure why he was so happy about that. It wasn't really a happy thing.

But instead of evading him, she sat down on the ground and patted the spot next to her. "Come on, come sit."

"Do you know what cosmetic surgery is?"

He shook his head.

"It's when people have a doctor change the way that they look, mostly to fix stuff they don't like about themselves or to feel prettier. People say they've 'had work done' when they get it. So, I've had some work done."

He wrinkled his nose up. "A doctor cut you so you'd look prettier?"

"I didn't like the way I looked. No, that's not true really...I didn't like myself, I didn't even want to be myself anymore. I wanted to start fresh, and I thought that changing what I saw when I looked in the mirror would help."

"Oh." He thought about it. "Did it cost a lot of money?"

"It did."

"You...um, you work for my Dad, or you used to, I guess you don't really anymore because you're here for free but it seems like if you had a lot of money you wouldn't need to take care of sick people."

"I did have a lot of money. I don't anymore."

Jamie found a twig and fiddled with it in his hands. He couldn't imagine hating himself so much that he would get his face cut, but he knew that the way you looked was very important to some people, and it seemed like women worried about it a lot more than men. He wanted to ask her what had happened to her that she felt so bad, but, he didn't really want to either. It must have been something really horrible.

But she hadn't lied.

So Jamie found himself trusting Mary, and liking her. She was kind of fun. She liked video games. She let him have extra pudding. She helped him beat Father at Monopoly. And every time he asked her something, she didn't lie as far as he could tell. She really did make Father happy.

So Jamie wasn't really surprised when Father sat him down in his office after he had been staying with them for awhile. Mary was out going to the pharmacy, and all day Mycroft had seemed anxious. He was practically bobbing up and down.

"Jamie, I need to talk to you about something."

"What is it?"

"What do you think of Mary?" Mycroft asked him.

"She's okay." he answered in a low key way.

"Do you...hmmm...no, let's start over." He waved at the air, as if it could erase the last few sentences they had spoken. "Jamie, I like Mary quite a lot. I like her living here, with us. I have been thinking about the matter and I believe it might be time for me to, well, settle down, as they say. I'm not getting any younger, and too long I have been waiting for things that I can never have, and perhaps even overlooking what is right in front of me. Perhaps it is time to just accept what life has given me instead of yearning for the blue skies of the heavens. Where I am right now is a happy place, for a man my age, and I want things to stay the way they are."

"I don't understand." Jamie said, cutting him off a bit maybe but he had no idea what Father was talking about. Worse, Mycroft was getting that glazed over look in his eyes. But Jamie speaking seemed to shake him back to the here and now, and his face cleared.

"I'm going to ask Mary to be my wife."

"Oh...why didn't you just say that?"

"I- Nevermind. I'd like to know if that would be alright with you. Your opinion is very important to me, Jamie."

Jamie thought of all the tests Mary had passed. He thought about Mary telling him that Mycroft's happiness was the most important thing to her. She said she didn't love Mycroft, but, Mum and Dad loved each other and look at them. He also thought about her saying that she had hated herself. He was pretty sure that there were some bad things in Mary's past that Father may or may not know about. Would he 'look into her', the way he did with people, or would he want to trust her because she was going to be his wife?

Had Mary done something horrible that Father didn't even know about?

She said she used to have money. If she married Father, she'd have it again. Should he say something about that?

But did Mary know that Father really shouldn't drink or that he sort of loved his mother a lot still or any of the other secrets that Mycroft had built his life out of?

Maybe when you were a grown up, since everyone lied anyway, it didn't matter. Or maybe it wasn't his job to fix it. He had an idea then, tickling at his brain. What to do when he didn't know what to do.

He told Mycroft, "I like Mary. It's okay with me."

"Are you certain?"

"Yep."

Mycroft got up and hugged Jamie. He was very proud of the boy, although he really didn't know why. Jamie and he stayed in the office for a bit, talking about throwing Mary a party, if she said yes, which Jamie was pretty sure she would. Jamie put away his idea, to save for later, and asked Mycroft how he was going to ask Mary.

"I don't know yet. Something special, of course. What do you think?"

"Um...lasers? Fireworks? Maybe you could put it on the telly?"

"Perhaps something a bit more understated."

When Mary got home, Mycroft cautioned him not to say anything yet, and Jamie promised not to. Then he asked Mycroft, "Can you please text Uncle Sherlock and tell him I am going to call him?"

"Yes, of course." Mycroft replied distractedly. He was thinking of rings and prenuptial agreements and all other sorts of matrimonial things. He dashed off the message on his phone and then marched off to greet Mary.

As Jamie went to his room, he heard Mycroft asking Mary if she had any plans for that Sunday, because he had something special in mind. Jamie shut his door and got the phone off its cradle by the bed.

It rang, it rang, and then when Uncle Sherlock finally answered, Jamie said bluntly, "Father's getting married."


	18. Chapter 18

**UPDATED - FORMATTING ISSUES CORRECTED!**

**chapter 18 **

Mycroft had always longed to be accepted, popular, sought after. In his childhood fantasies he was James Bond. He saved the world and looked absolutely dashing doing it. Men and women both fell into his arms in grateful adulation. His parents were proud. Everything he did and said looked as if it came straight out of a very sophisticated liquor ad.

Reality had been, unfortunately, somewhat different.

It started out with his being... pudgy as a boy, and a teenager, and a young man. The more people made him feel awkward and unsexy about his body, the more he ate and the worse he looked. He never carried his weight well. In time, he learned to compensate for it with good manners, good hair and an obscene amount of power. He had a few very remarkable love affairs. Anyone who wanted to be anyone in government made sure to send him Christmas cards. But he didn't really believe people weren't pointing and laughing behind his back until he lost the weight. By then, you could almost picture him as a master of the universe. But never as the romantic hero.

If he was honest, which he was trying to be, there was not a lot of romance about his impending proposal. He got along well with Mary. She curved his worst impulses and indulged the less destructive ones. She took good care of him and his home. She seemed, as indelicate as it sounded, to 'just get him' and more so, she liked him. It was not a fiery love affair, but it was a mutually beneficial partnership. He didn't want it to slip through his fingers. Too many things, too many people, had in his lifetime. If he could hang on to Mary, it would be achieving a great goal to him in his lifelong search for worth. Being a traditionalist, he thought that the best way to hang onto a woman would be marriage, a somewhat permanent arrangement. Now he only needed to propose.

He knew enough to know that no woman, no matter how reasonable or even-footed about life, wanted to be asked to 'enter into a mutually beneficial partnership'. They wanted a man to propose to them in the most romantic, dashing way possible. They wanted James Bond. And he hadn't the slightest idea how to go about that.

He could ask Molly for help but...no.

He could also cover his hands in paper cuts and then dip them in lemon wedges. It would have the same effect.

She would gladly help him, but it would be at a cost to her and him both. He had not brought up her clumsy proposition of him, he had not tried to encourage her to leave John, he had not told her of his betrayal. He was trying, in short, to be a good friend to her. Good friends did not claw at old wounds and missed chances. They didn't brag about parties when you were miserable. So as far as getting a woman's opinion, he didn't really have options. He wouldn't have any idea if he was about to make a fool of himself or not.

So he was sitting at his desk with a list. The heading was the date and time he had chosen to make his offer. He had then written down what he thought were his best ideas:

_-Personalized fortune cookie_

_-Slip engagement ring in a glass of champagne_

_-Hot air balloon_

_-Commission a swimming pool. Build a swimming pool. Fill said pool with rose petals and glittery items. Emerge in a wetsuit with the ring._

_-Moonlit carriage ride_

_-Train a small and fluffy dog to deliver ring on a tiny velvet pillow_

_-Ask Queen for help_

_-Ask Her Royal Majesty for help_

_-Hire a violinist_

_-Buy world's largest diamond, grind it to dust. Spell out 'Will You Marry Me?' in diamond dust on her pillow_

_-Dress as cupid_

And it just got worse from there.

He let his forehead fall gently onto the desk and tapped it softly against the wood, his version of beating his head against the desk. Idiotic, foolish, trite, impossible, sentimental, muttered to himself. He imagined what Sherlock would say about each and every one of these choices, and he would never let him live down any of them. He had murdered men, in cold blood and violently. He had risen up like a great storm against those who would harm his family. He had with a slip of his fingers changed the history of nations. So why in the world was this so difficult?

Next to his head, his phone started buzzing and vibrating across the desk. Mycroft glanced at it and groaned.

**New Text Message From**

**Sherlock. **

He clicked on it to see what in the world his brother could want at this low moment. Sherlock, as ever, did not disappoint.

_Getting married does not make you normal. -SH_

He lifted up his head and angrily started typing back.

_I'm getting married, if she accepts, because I want to be with Mary. I don't expect you to understand what that's like. -MH_

_What are you trying to prove? -SH_

_NOTHING. -MH_

_Are you trying to prove you are no longer the fat boy with chronic ear infections? Look at Mycroft and his pretty wife! They're so skinny! I shouldn't have stolen his pants back in 4th Year! -SH_

_Terribly amusing. -MH_

_This is a mistake. -SH_

_That's something you **would** know a lot about. -MH_

_Being married will not make you popular. You will still be an emaciated, brain damaged alcoholic, just with a wife. -SH_

_Why are you being so cruel? _Mycroft typed, but then erased. That was like asking why the sky appeared blue or why fish swam. Sherlock was expressing his concern in the only way he knew how to, with petty remarks and put downs. But it still hurt. It still cut. To be constantly criticized by your baby brother of all people. Sherlock thought that he was so intelligent and so above reproach.

_Did John tell you he cheated on Molly? -MH_

Smirking, Mycroft snapped his phone shut. He felt it immediately begin to buzz at him again but he ignored it.

"You look entirely too pleased with heard Mary say as she flounced into the room. Working on top secret plans?"

Before he could stop her, being slowed by his gloating, Mary snatched the paper off the desk.

"Mary, don-"

"What's this...buy her a pony?...Her eyes moved back and forth as she moved down the list. Rent a castle?"

"Would you like to get married?" he blurted out suddenly, in a cold panic. He didn't even say it **correctly**. He looked perfectly calm, even though he was sweating mental bullets. The only indicator that he was in a state of utter trauma was the rapid increase in his pulse and the way his skin grew just slightly flushed. "Will you marry me?" he repeated, phrasing it the right way. His eyebrows lifted in expectation of her answer. He opened up his desk drawer and got out the velvet box he had picked up from his private vault. "I had planned on asking in a slightly more elaborate way, as you can see, but there you have it."

"Mycroft." she said, setting the list down on the desk. "I don't know what to say."

"Yes?" he suggested. "Just throwing that out there." As a she didn't immediately follow up by saying that, his face fell a little.

"I didn't expect this." She finally replied.

"Is it at least a happy surprise?"

"No, I'm happy. I'm very happy. See?" she smiled at him. "I just didn't think that you and I were like this."

"Like what?" he asked, not understanding or not wanting to.

"I thought we agreed that what we have works. That it doesn't need to be anything more than that." She didn't even touch the box, he noticed. She wouldn't even look at it. If she could have, she would have run from the room, he could see it in her eyes and it made him hate her and hate himself for a moment.

"Well, if that's how you feel, disregard it. I never even said it it." He said, trying to make it sound gracious. His fingers reached out to put back the unobserved box.

"Stop." She said hurriedly, reaching out and stopping him. "No, don't be like that. I'm just...caught off guard." Her hand stayed on his, keeping him from putting away the ring. "I didn't think you wanted anything like marriage."

"Perhaps not at first." He said, regaining a margin of his dignity. "But I think that we work well together. I like you being here. I want you to stay. I thought that you would be happier about the idea."

She squeezed his fingers. "It was a surprise."

"It was for me as well."

"You don't really know me, Mycroft. You don't know a lot about me. I might not be a good wife."

"I think you would be."

"I have a past."

"We all do."

She seemed hesitant to him but not, unless he was imagining it, as horrified as she had first seemed. "I've got a bad past. There's things-"

"I don't care. We can put all of that behind us. I'll never ask."

"I-"

"Yesssss?"

"I need some time to think about it." She came around the desk and put her arms around his neck, standing behind his chair. He felt kisses on his cheek.

"Yes. Time. Of course." His skin was stone under her touch. At lease she couldn't see his face right now.

"It's not that I don't love you."

"Take your time. Whatever you decide." He reached out again, pulling his body away from hers, and grabbed the ring box, shoving it into the desk drawer and slamming the drawer shut again. His breath flared into a huff and then he closed his eyes, forcing calmness to overtake him. 的t is a big conceded.

"I'm going to go for now, I think. Jamie's watching the telly, he just had his lunch."

"Thank you, Mary."

"I'll call you.'

"Yes, do so."

She wanted to say more, she seemed like she was about to, but she didn't. Instead she slipped quietly out of the room and Mycroft pretended to be busy with a folder on his desk until the door shut behind her. Then he was alone.

"Mycroft, you moron." He said harshly.


	19. Chapter 19

**Aerials, Chapter 19**

**(Note: The formatting issues with the last chapter have corrected if anyone wants to reread before continuing.)**

The house was dark when John got home. He had smiled blandly through as much of Molly's mother as he could, not saying anything when she started talking about how skinny Carrie was and that Molly wasn't really chesty enough to have breastfed her, not punching her in the face when she said how glad she was that Jamie was spending some time with Mycroft as she knew that one was a bad seed, etc. It was bad enough to endure this horrible woman when everything else in his life was alright, but now that things were...

Since he had sex with Clara, a stupid impulse that he shouldn't have listened to...

Now that he was being blackmailed by Mycroft's girlfriend, who still frequently starred in his morning shower fantasies...

Because he had no one to talk to about either of these things until he got back, if he even cared then, because he didn't seem to really care about their friendship right now...

Now that his life was shit, basically...

He faked some bad heartburn and fled as soon as he could. He knew Molly's mom would be nagging at her, telling her she better keep an eye on her husband or he would slip away, so on and so forth, but he had to preserve his sanity. So he had driven home and slipped inside his dark house, relief wrapped around him like a warm blanket. He slipped off his shoes, dropped his keys on the table and reached over to flick on the table lamp.

"Hello John."

The doctor nearly leapt out of his skin when the light spread across the room and he could see Sherlock sitting in the easy chair.

"Sweet Jesus don't do that!" he yelled at him. "You'll give me a heart attack."

Sherlock raised a single eye brow to relay that he would consider this.

"Were you...were you just sitting here in the dark waiting for someone to get home?"

Sherlock nodded.

"For how long?"

"Three hours, seven minutes, five seconds."

"What-wait, how in the hell did you get in here?"

"I broke in. It wasn't difficult. Mycroft needs to change his security codes, seeing as someone wants to murder us all in our sleep."

"That's a comforting thought. Why are you here? Not that I'm not glad to see you, but, we could have gotten lunch, maybe had a beer, gone...fishing, I don't know, instead of you skulking around in the dark."

"Skulking, is that what I'm doing?" Sherlock asked, steepling his fingers together. He spoke each word very clearly, and very slowly. That was when John knew something wasn't right.

"A little. Did something happen?"

"You tell me."

"I'm a little too worn out to be clever right now." John said, peeling off his socks. No one was dead, or dying, Sherlock would have said. So things couldn't be that bad.

"I leave London for a few months and everyone seems to have lost their mind. I wonder if it is something that has been added to the water supply, or perhaps air pollutants." Sherlock said in that same slow, steady tone, the one he would use to describe a dull crime scene. "Mycroft is apparently getting married and you...why I am sitting here, John, why I am here instead of in New Orleans, where there is still a great deal to uncover, by the way, about our foes, what I want to know if how you could. Possibly. be. So. Very. Stupid?"

His voice was venomous and it frightened John. "What the hell are you on about?"

"You committed adultery. One of the commandments. A favorite of mine, actually." He examined his nails. "I could guess, I'm sure, exactly what happened, but that might be fun for me and there is nothing amusing about this."

"Wh-how-Who told you that?"

"It doesn't matter. It's true, isn't it?"

John went through all the stages of grieving in a few seconds as well a panic attack that nearly floored him, then he let out a big woosh of air and hung his head down. "Thank god. Now at least I can talk to you about it. I was going crazy, trying to keep it all in."

"What. Happened?"

"It was Clara. We'd...we'd done it before and she was here to help me wrap up things with Harry and it just happened. I didn't mean for it to. I feel awful."

"Hmph. And to think, all this time, I had labored under the misconception that you were a good person."

"Excuse me?"

"A good person." Sherlock said with a snarl. "Not one of those callow morons who uses sex to fill the holes in his life that his family can't fill. Not someone who hurts the people that love him to satisfy his own stupid needs. You had me so fooled."

John's mouth fell open. "Hey! I screwed up, but I don't think I deserve this kind of reaction, not from you of all people."

"Me? Oh yes, because I am not bound to societal conventions of what is right and wrong. I should be able to examine this scientifically, or look at it is as some fascinating personal quirk that I can study and question you about because infidelity is such a foreign concept to me. I shouldn't care who you sleep with or how well you utterly destroy your marriage because I covet you. Perhaps you were even going to invoke some sort of male code about taking each other's side in things like this. You were wrong for having any of those assumptions."

"Now wait a minute here..."

"No. You wait a minute. This is a lecture, John, don't interrupt me. As little as I care about the sacred nature of marriage, you made vows and you have responsibilities. Molly lied to you about Jamie. You're 'upset'. But you walked into all of this and made a family with them, and Carolyn. I do not approve of, nor will I allow, you to sleepwalk through your marriage with this kind of...you will not become a father who ignores his children and only speaks to his wife to toss verbal barbs at her. Your children will not grow up around a dinner table watching you and Molly silently despise each other. They will not become pawns in your battle to one-up a wife you can no longer stand. If you want to leave Molly, leave her. I will help you pack. But this? You are not doing this."

John never considered, and even now only briefly thought about, Sherlock's own childhood and his parents. That must have been their marriage that he was describing and it sounded frankly, hellish. But that moment of empathy quickly passed and was replaced by indignation.

"You're...insane. You and your whole family are barking bloody mad! Who do you think you are to come in and lay into me when half of what comes out of your mouth is some kind of sexual invitation? You know what I think, I think you're mad that if I was going to shag anyone, I didn't pick you! I have had it! I've really had it, Sherlock, with you and you ignoring me, flittering in and out like some sort of migratory bird. I tried to talk to you about this months ago but you couldn't be bloody bothered! Now I've got you sitting here like St. Peter wanting to read out my sins and I've got your brother's bloody girlfriend threatening to tell Molly if I don't hand over Jamie to her like he's a puppy or a borrowed casserole dish. I've had to be a right bastard to the woman I love to pull this off, because I can't tell her what happened, she wouldn't understand and I just, she'd never forgive me, she would for some things but not for this so don't you-"

"Stop." Sherlock held up his hand. "What about Mary Morstan? She threatened you?"

"She said she'd tell Molly everything unless I let Jamie come and live with Mycroft." He said miserably.

Sherlock was silent, which was better than yelling but John couldn't figure out why. He could see his friend thinking about something with every bit of mental prowess he possessed but John was clueless as to what it was. He waited as seconds, then minutes passed. At one point, he went out to the kitchen, got himself some juice and returned to find Sherlock in exactly the same position. Molly might be home soon and John didn't want to think about what Sherlock would say or do if he were still seated there when that happened. He tried clearing his throat but he got no reply. After an hour or so, Sherlock finally spoke and said simply, "Of course."

"What?"

"Don't you see?" He smiled wryly. "It's so obvious once you think about it."

"Seemed to take you awhile to figure it out though."

Sherlock gave him a look, and it was a much less murderous one. Now it was merely a glance of his usual contempt for the average.

"Mary." he said, trying to give him a hint.

John's face was blank.

"When I told you that I had a lead on Beecher, the passports, Mary was there. Your said you ran into her when you went inside the house. Literally, if I remember correctly. Harriet was then killed in retaliation. Mary had scars behind both of her ears, indicators of plastic surgery. Her hands are very smooth, for someone who works in personal care, don't you think? She flirted with you fairly openly. She blackmailed you. She only came into our lives after Mycroft had suffered his injury. Maybe she was some kind of back-up plan, if Beecher's first attack didn't have the desired effect."

"You're saying Mary works for Beecher? That's ridiculous."

"Is it? Pierce and I have been following up on a lead regarding a woman. The woman. Irene Adler. She was Moriarty's lover and appears to have been passed on to Beecher. We killed the man she loved. Would she not want revenge?"

"But Mary? Come on, I hardly think-"

"I know you don't. The question is, why is she here? What is her purpose? If she wanted Mycroft dead, she's had a million chances. Well, 936,482 to be precise. At least. If she wants to take Jamie or kill him, she's had equal opportunity. Is she meant to disrupt us? Break up your marriage. Serve as a distraction? I haven't quite figured that out yet." He frowned. "And Mycroft is going to ask her to marry him."

"Seriously?"

"I have to go, John." He swung out of the chair, sweeping his coat behind him like a cloak.

"Wait!"

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, hissing on the ess.

"Um, let me come with?"

"Oh." Sherlock thought about it. "I suppose so. Get your shoes. The game is on."


	20. Chapter 20

**AERIALS – A Sherlock! Fanfiction by Hrlyqin – Chapter 20 **

Hours earlier, Mary Morstan went through the same motions as John, coming home to an empty and dark home (her old apartment) and wanting to collapse without so much as flicking on a light. She felt lost and bone-weary.

She didn't know what to do.

She knew what she had to do.

She knew what she wanted to do.

But she couldn't decide.

She paused in the open doorway, her keys still grasped in her hand. The air was wrong in here.

A hand appeared beside her and grabbed her by the hair, dragging her inside. She heard the slam of the door behind her. "I have been waiting for you." he whispered to her, his fingers biting into her skin. She reached out blindly until she felt something soft and warm and dug her nails into it, keeping her eyes squeezed shut (and less vulnerable) until she was let go.

"Don't grab me like that James." she replied, rubbing the back of her neck while he touched his bleeding arm.

"You cheeky, insolent bitch." he said furiously, glaring at her.

"Don't do it again." She pushed past him, acting nonchalant about it to show him she was not afraid. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm tired to sitting around. I'm ready to move. Tonight." he emphasized, following her.

"Well, I'm not, and I think it's up to me. I'm the one doing all the work while you lurk around being spooky and murderous."

"It doesn't seem like work to you. You aren't...enjoying yourself, are you?"

"Of course not." she laughed. "Enjoying myself, with that arrogant bastard?" She laughed again, trying to push the point. If she could just get him to leave... "You know I only enjoy myself with you." She turned to face him and tried to look coy and enticing.

"If only that were true." He stepped closer and closer until she felt his breath where she had just felt his hand, hot against her neck. "Irene, Mary, Irene..." He touched her cheek and was trying to be gentle with her. "Tell me what's going on. Something's changed. I can feel it on you. I can smell it." He sniffed her.

"Don't be ridiculous." She pursed her lips and caught his finger against them. "I'm playing a part. That's all."

"Then let's get it over with."

"It's not time yet." She shook her head. "Trust me."

"I do." he leaned into her, his forehead touching the top of her shoulder. "I wish I didn't. This is such a dance, isn't it? We go back and forth, back and forth, and I let you lead. But it's my turn now. It's time." His fingers tightened and roughened against her again and she tensed. "We're killing him tonight."

"No." she answered too quickly.

"No?" he froze, a hand on her waist, a hand at her side. "No?!" She was pushed violently against the wall. "What do you mean, NO? This is why we're here!" He shouted. "I should have never listened to you! You said, let's not kill him yet. I said okay. You said you had something better. You wanted the brat. I said okay. Then you said wait. Wait, Jamie, Wait." He had her cornered now and his screams in her face were deafening. "You know what I think? I think this isn't a game to you anymore. You stopped playing and it's real and you don't want him dead. You Fucking TRAITOR!" Keeping his hold on her, she felt her feet lifted up off the ground. "He killed my brother! He took him away from us! Your child is dead in the ground while he is raising some other cunt's whelp. We were supposed to take EVERYTHING AWAY from him!"

He dropped her to the floor and she slumped, trying to steady herself to strike out. If she could fight him, she could tame him. But everything was soft and gray and she slid rather than standing. A foot connected with her chest and she coughed.

"Traitor!" he screamed again. "I should have never listened to you! Stupid WHORE! Useless...utterly useless!" He kicked again and again. When her hands reached out to stop him, he kicked those just as easily. She must have passed out, because suddenly there was a phone in his hand and he was pacing, his trousers splattered with blood.

Her blood...

"You're going to be useful now. If it is your last act on earth, you will do me some fucking good." He dialed and pressed the phone to her ear. It was her phone, she recognized it now that it was closer. "Get him to turn off the cameras."

"James," she spoke and there was blood in her mouth. "Just listen to me."

"No. No more. You do this or I will kill you. I'll kill you _slowly_."

Her eyes pleaded with him. She looked at him and saw nothing. That was what was so scary about him. With Aiden, or Moriarty, as he liked to be called, there was always this smirk in his expression to let you know how much fun he was having. It was there even when he was in a rage. Because if he didn't enjoy it, he wouldn't do it. But James was different. He didn't do it for the fun of it, he did it because he couldn't help it. The human was missing in him. If you worked and prodded, you could fill it in for him. He was an insatiable lover. He was easily up. But always she watched for him to just go blank. When the nothingness in him opened up, that was when you were really in trouble.

"Please." she asked. He shook his head. She closed her eyes because she couldn't bear to look anymore.

She didn't know what to do.

Luckily for her, she didn't really have a choice. Mycroft answered on the fourth ring, no doubt he had sat and watched his phone ring, not wanting to seem too eager to pick up her call. She spoke to him, bloodied and broken on her floor, and you would have never been able to tell it in her voice.

"I'm sorry I rushed out so quickly."

"No, don't apologize. I was presumptuous."

"I felt ridiculous the entire way home, like I was in some awful romantic comedy. I wanted to turn around, but I thought that you were furious with me."

"Not at all." He said soothingly.

"Can I come back and maybe, we could try it again?"

"Of course! I mean, yes...of course, if that's what you want."

She choked out a laugh. "Not that you're excited or anything."

"Perish the thought." he replied, laughing a little too. "I'll see you soon then?"

"Yes. Oh...could you do something for me first though?"

"What's that my dear?"

"Maybe, turn off the cameras at the house. I just...let's say, I don't want to have to worry about anything illicit being caught on film. We might be celebrating, after all."

"Yes." The heat was apparent in his tone. "I can most certainly do that."

"Good. I'll see you soon. Just give me two shakes."

"I love you, Mary."

_Please._

"I love you too, Mycroft."

Mycroft hung up with her and looked at his phone for a minute, a positively pleased expression on his face. Then he clicked on the menu for his applications and made a few other swift finger movements across the keyboard. When prompted for a password, he typed in U-M-B-R-E-L-L-A.

Illicit things. Oh my. He had better make sure Jamie was tucked in and very soundly asleep.

.

.

.

"I can't get him to answer his phone." Sherlock said, his voice piqued with annoyance.

"We'll be there soon." John told him. "And you called those people, they're on their way too."

"Pick up!" Sherlock yelled at his mobile. "This is intolerable. He's such a child."

"He could be sleeping."

"He's angry with me for calling him pathetic."

"So I'm not the only one today then. Good."

Sherlock snorted.

John drove for a minute in silence. "Not that I didn't deserve it." He said, following up. "You were right. I acted like a jack ass."

"Finally, after years of friendship, I'm rubbing off on you."

"I screwed up." he admitted.

"Then fix it. If you love your family, fix it."

"So your Mom or your Dad..."

"I don't want to discuss it." Sherlock said, dialing Mycroft again.

"Well, like I said, I'm sorry." He shut up after that and just drove while Sherlock hurled insults at his phone. It took him another ten minutes to get to Mycroft's house. Sherlock told him to stop the car up the driveway, a distance still from the house and John complied. When they got out to walk, they moved as silently as possible.

The house was dark. No lights on, not even in the bedrooms. Not anywhere, and it wasn't even that late. Jamie was in there, John thought. If something happened to him now, John would never get to explain anything, he would never...

The old soldier swallowed, forcing his heart to slow down.

Sherlock lead them around the side of the house where they entered through the kitchen door. Sherlock had gone to the alarm pad, but after a few taps it seemed to be inactive. Not a good sign.

"Do you smell that?" John whispered.

Sherlock nodded. "Blood. You find Jamie. I'll find Mycroft."

They looked at each other and then parted ways. Sherlock headed for the study first and finding it empty, went for Mycroft's bedroom.

His bedroom, his sick room, Sherlock thought. Would it still have that medicine smell to it? It was truly remarkable how often his brother touched death but managed to elude it, given how much he hated running. He wondered if this was somehow his fault, as John's infidelity might be his fault. Perhaps if he were a better brother, closer to Mycroft, if he hadn't left town, none of this would have happened. It was a humbling thought and the concept of being humbled nearly froze Sherlock where he stood. But no, he reasoned, if it hadn't been this, it would have been something else, maybe something worse.

The bedroom was also empty but the covers were mussed as if they had been recently thrown back. The smell of blood he had caught wind of in the kitchen was fainter in here and after a check of the dresser and the closet, Sherlock had learned all the room could teach him. He retreated, treading back the way he had come and then turning to explore the dining room, foyer and other rooms off the hall. But there was nothing, maddeningly **nothing**. Where was Mycroft? Where were the damned security people? He must have been stumbling around this ostentatious house for ten minutes at least. To have no clues was...bizarre. It was horrifying. Sherlock made his way slowly back into the foyer, confused and just a little bit frightened underneath that.

When he ran into James Beecher, he very nearly actually ran into him. The man was by the front door and he seemed like he was waiting. For what, Sherlock didn't know. Maybe Mycroft hadn't been home at all. But if it was not Mycroft, then where did all that blood come from? The other man seemed like he had bathed in it.

"Sherlock Holmes." he said to him. "Do you know who I am?"

"James Beecher. I've been looking for you."

"Well," he spread his arms wide. "You found me."


	21. Chapter 21

**AERIALS – A Sherlock! Fanfiction by Hrlyqin – Chapter 21**

"So how do we do this?" James asked him. "I'm a little unclear, frankly. I know I'm supposed to draw it out, we need to dance about the architecture a little bit but really...why shouldn't I just...kill you right away?" He scratched his head, seeming genuinely confused. Sherlock took those moments to absorb as many details about his surroundings and his nemesis as he could.

Blood on the sleeve, older than other stains, smeared in a way to suggest gripping, fingers, Sherlock observed the angle, fingers grasping would indicate that whoever had bled on him had lived long enough to grab his arm, shoes were scuffed he had been in a physical altercation that involved a lot of movement, a fistfight maybe, with someone slightly taller and right handed (Mycroft?) the suit was old, maybe he didn't like murdering people in his good clothes, there was an odor about him, a chemical smell in his sweat that indicated high dosages of psychiatric medications but if Sherlock had to guess, he would say he might need to adjust his prescriptions because they weren't doing the job. That he was still taking his meds but clearly was unrepentant in his behavior indicated that either he was much worse, perhaps wholly non functioning, without them, or that he did this out of habit, even though constant use of the medications had worn down their effectiveness. Such slavish devotion to habit was good, it told Sherlock that there was a need in James to have patterns and familiarity to keep his mind going. Clearly, this foe was on very tenuous mental footing. How could he use that though? The doorway behind James was unblemished, he had not come in that way, and...

And...

and...

He blinked, trying to slap his brain into working again, but there was nothing. Just like before, nothing. There were still untold depths of information to be had, sitting right in front of him, but he couldn't process it. He suddenly became aware of the passing milliseconds. Time was going slower to him than a clock could measure but he felt painfully that each moment gone was another moment where he did not know what had happened to Mycroft. He had not gone to Jamie's room before, not wanting to waste time, so he could not say that he knew his nephew was safe either. He could only hope (and that was an odd sensation for him) that John had found Jamie safe and sound and taken him out of the house as quickly as possible. He could only hope that they were both okay. John wouldn't leave Jamie alone, he would want to, so he could go and rescue Sherlock (pop up and shoot someone through a window like he had done before wasn't that how they sort of became friends and even though he knew that he could not continue to rely on John in this way John with the family and John with others he cared about now he still expected John to save him when he was out of ideas), but he wouldn't just leave Jamie, he was a child. He hoped they were safe, he hoped Mycroft was unharmed, but he didn't know that and this insipid little troll leered at him from feet away. Sherlock wanted to leap on him and rip the skin from his face. His fingers itched to tear into his flesh and abuse his body for putting him through this mental trauma. It would be extremely satisfying.

But, that wouldn't help located Mycroft, if James knew where he was. So Sherlock tried another tactic.

"Is Irene Adler with you?" he asked him.

James twitched. He looked...sad? "Ask your brother."

"I'd love to. Do you know where he is?"

He **knew**. Sherlock saw it on his face, he knew something. If not where Mycroft was than maybe what had happened to him at least. Sherlock's mind sputtered back to life long enough for him to be aware that some of the blood on Beecher belonged to Mycroft. That's what his expression said, it told him that he had hurt Mycroft tonight.

Sherlock also knew, in that same second, that James Beecher would not be allowed to live for that offense. Not on this night.

The only question now was, could he find Mycroft without Beecher? It could be as simple as Mycroft being outside on the grounds somewhere, hiding in a car, or in some sort of underground bat cave Sherlock was unaware of. It could also be that men had taken Mycroft away, to be tortured or killed (tortured and killed?) on Beecher's order while he stayed behind to wait for Sherlock. In one instance, Mycroft would be easily located. In the other, he had little to no chance, at the very least it could not be done quickly.

Beecher annoyingly interrupted his train of thought by speaking. If Sherlock hadn't already decided his fate, he would have killed him for that.

"Be honest with me. I mean really," James was saying, "just between us sociopaths. How would you feel if he were dead? You'd be angry. But also maybe a little bit relieved. Because face it, without Mycroft, you'd be free. No more babysitter. No one telling you to do this or go there or stop that." His fingers and hands flapped when he spoke. "Wouldn't that be a better world?"

"Is that how you felt when your brother died?" Sherlock snapped. "Is this all some elaborate ruse to show everyone how frightfully upset you are when really you didn't feel anything but joy? You aren't me. I'm not you. I don't kill innocent people."

James laughed and Moriarty was reborn, if only for a passing moment. "Innocent. That's a good one. Can I use that?"

"No I think I'm right. I usually am. Nearly always, in fact. You don't want to let your brother down by not going off the rails. But if you had your way, you'd probably give us a medal."

"DON'T!" James screamed at him. "Don't act like you know what I felt for my brother! You don't!"

"I know what you felt for your brother's wife." Sherlock muttered.

"Enough!" The gun came out, front and center and aimed directly at Sherlock's phantom heart. "You deserve to burn. You all do. Everyone who helped. All those little agents and spies, the women, the lovers, everyone who got their hands dirty with Aiden's blood. I killed so many...I still feel...I can't...I can't end this, not until you're all dead." There was a loud click as the gun readied to fire.

Sherlock took a step back. He looked around the room. He forced his brain to operate, drawing any reserve of mental energies. The odds were calculated. The math done. He took his step backwards and he leapt at Beecher, just like he had wanted to, sending his body flying into his. It all happened so quickly, and he couldn't be sure if it was before or after they crashed together, but somewhere in there, the gun went off.


	22. Chapter 22

**AERIALS – A Sherlock! Fanfiction by Hrlyqin – Chapter 22**

Sherlock and James both crashed to the floor. He had heard the gunshot, but he was too busy struggling with the other man to say if either of them were hit. The gun that now jabbed against his thigh was cold, it had not been the one to fire the shot. That was all he could say for now.

He grabbed James by his lapels and banged his head against the floor, picking him up just a bit and then dropping him back. James scrabbled at him, scratching his hands and face, slamming a fist into the bottom of his chin and landing a blow against his ear. He felt a filling loosing and separate in his mouth, rattling around his cheek. Sherlock kept one hand on his jacket but let the other one go for the eyes, pressing his thumb against James' right eyelid while the man howled in pain. He was bucked up and then flipped, Sherlock finding himself on the floor now as James loomed over him, using the gun he held to beat Sherlock's torso and turn it bruised and tenderized. Somewhere in his mind, in the way only Sherlock's brain worked, he made a mental note for further sexual encountered that if given the choice, he would always prefer to be on top. He also remembered he had dry cleaning to pick up.

Using his legs, his feet, his arms, he managed to wrestle James off of him and throw him a few feet away. The other man landed with a thud, the gun flying out of his hand and Sherlock made a mad sliding dash across the floor to get it. While James was still re orientating himself, Sherlock closed his fingers on the trigger and managed to grasp the handle just as his ankle was grabbed. Instead of trying to pull Sherlock to him, James beat at his calves and his knees savagely. Sherlock kicked him in the face until he let go and he could turn to fire.

But the target was unmoving.

Sherlock though he had let go after his nose was crushed by the heel of a finely made British dress shoe. But now that the fray had ceased, he could see that the bullet had hit James low in his belly. The floor they had been sliding across was slick with blood. Was it an anatomy textbook, or maybe a movie John had watched on cable, that informed him how wounds of that nature are extremely painful but rarely fatal? It was a movie, Sherlock remembered, because he and John had gotten into a raging argument about how long it would have taken for the actor to die and how mobile he would have been for the duration of the film while he was yowling in pain. They had gotten Chinese food. It was just after the tadpole case. The memory was as clear as day before Sherlock pushed it away to deal with matters at hand.

He was not dead, but incapacitated. Sherlock would guess (as if he ever guessed) that the gunshot trauma, combined with other injuries in such quick succession, had put him into a semiconscious state of agony. That was absolutely fine with him. Since he did not seem to be going anywhere, Sherlock looked around the room to find the source of the bullet.

It did not take him long.

He wished that it would have taken him much longer though.

A small figure in red pajamas with aeroplanes printed on them (Sherlock recognized them as a Christmas gift from Mrs. Hudson, bought at Ledson's on sale) stood just inside the foyer. He must have fired before Sherlock jumped, or just at the moment he jumped, to strike Beecher at such an angle. Had he been watching the argument? Had he chosen only to fire when Beecher pointed the gun and put Sherlock's life in immediate danger. That was such a...

Familiar act.

"Jamie." Sherlock crossed the room quickly and took the gun from him. John's piece. The one Sherlock had used many times before eventually just acquiring him one of his own. The same gun that had saved his life before. It was tucked away in a pocket while he examined Jamie for injuries.

The boy was bloodied but seemed unharmed. Whatever had happened, he had not been part of it. The splatters on his pajamas were not his. "Are you alright?" Sherlock asked.

Jamie nodded.

"Do you know where Mycroft is?"

He shook his head.

"Do you know where John is?"

A nod, this time more urgent and then Jamie was tugging on his hand. He would show him where John was.

_The blood on his clothing is not Mycroft's if he does not know where Mycroft is, does that mean it is John's?_

Sherlock shook his own head, needing to concentrate for a minute. He could not panic. He had to think clearly. Really, he had never had a more clear decision in his life. "Jamie, I need you to take me to John, but first, I need you to wait inside that room. I will be right out."

Jamie's turn to shake his head.

"I need to..." he looked back at James Beecher, still on the floor and wheezing breaths. "Finish things. Do you understand?" He did not want Jamie to see him kill Beecher. Even if it wasn't murder. Even if it was more proactive self-defense.

Jamie looked at the man on the floor too. Sherlock was not sure how much he understood about what was going on. Did he know the man was related to him? Did he comprehend what brought him to this point? Sherlock would ask him, later. Now there wasn't any time, but he could not leave while Beecher was still alive. "Jamie," he started.

"I want to watch." Jamie said.

"Absolutely not."

"He said he was going to hurt my father and rape my mother." the boy said, each word clear and perfectly sound. "I want to see him die."

Sherlock sighed. He understood Jamie's reasoning. It was actually quite logical. If he saw it happen, he would never have to question whether or not Beecher was really dead and that would give him some peace. But Mycroft would be livid. John may not ever speak to him again. He could take Jamie, and Molly and the baby and move away. It was likely what he would do. Or he could just say he was done with all of their bullshit and just leave them all.

If he knew.

"Alright. But it is going to be our secret. You cannot tell anyone."

Jamie nodded again and Sherlock, not really seeing a quicker or better solution, turned around, walked over to Beecher and shot him in the forehead. He fired twice for good measure. He stood there long enough to make sure Beecher expired, which only took 41 seconds. When he turned back, Jamie had not so much as covered his eyes. Sherlock was sad, strangely proud, and a lot of other things mingled together.

"Now take me to John." he said.

Jamie took his hand and lead Sherlock away. Considering that all of this had started as an experiment for him, there was so much he wanted to ask Jamie right now. But his curiosity began to be overtaken by worry as they walked back to Jamie's room. He could not think of a good reason that John would be in there, or why John would have let Jamie take his gun. Not if everything was alright.

When they got to the door, Jamie was the first to go through it. Sherlock stood, not wanting to move. The worry had grown in his mind until it was all he could think about. There had perhaps, in the entire history of the world, never been a door anyone had wanted to walk through less than Sherlock wanted to walk through this one. There had perhaps been no greater obstacle faced or no harder act than to see what was on the other side.

He finally forced himself, and it was everything he expected. It was everything he feared and worse.

Jamie was kneeling on the floor by his bed. Next to him was John. Doctor John Hamish Watson, who had a scar on the bottom of his foot from a family trip to the beach as a child, who hated peanuts in his Chinese food and who was very good at poker, was propped up against Jamie's small nightstand, his face ashy and white. He was whispering something to Jamie, their voices too low for Sherlock to hear. Jamie nodding, John nodding and then Jamie hugging the man around the neck tightly. He would have given anything to know what they were saying, but he didn't dare go any closer until he was beckoned.

Then it was Jamie's turn to stand slightly away, outside of the circle, while Sherlock and John had their time. He hadn't understood until he got closer, but when he approached John he could smell and guess at the injury. There was a lot of blood soaked into the carpet. John's belt was tied around his leg but his trousers were still damp. There had been no gunfire, so Sherlock reasoned it was a stabbing wound. Something quick and quiet. It must have pierced the femoral artery.

"Jamie," Sherlock said, passing his phone back to the boy, "call Emergency Services."

"Sherlock?" John asked, bringing his attention fully back to him. "Jamie said the bad guys are taken care of?"

"Just the one."

John took it in. "I never even saw him. Hiding in the bloody closet or something." John cough and it came out of his mouth as red and wet.

"John you need to conserve your energy. There's an ambulance called up. Let me do all the talking."

"Like normal then?"

Sherlock smiled bitterly, then said what was most difficult for him to. There was something humbling, and terribly frightening, about seeing John like this. It made him feel so unbelievably small. It made everything seem so small.

"John I'm sorry. I never should have-"

John shushed him with a hard breath. "Don't worry about it."

"I just expect better of you. You're supposed to be the hero. You're the good one. If something is evil or bad or just rude, I'm the one who does it. When you make a mistake at something, it throws off my entire world view." Sherlock laughed. "But I'm sorry. Dinner is on me whenever we get through this."

"Sherlock, stop it. D'you really think we're going to get through this?"

"The ambulance is called up." he repeated, his tone both petulant and insistent.

"That's so very you, Sherlock. Stamping your foot and demanding the world work the way you think it should."

"You're not going to..." he dropped his voice to a whisper. "You're not going to _die_, John."

"I am." John repeated, also whispering, maybe to make Sherlock feel better. He took Sherlock's cold pale hand in his and squeezed it tightly. It was a lover's gesture for those who had never been. "I'm going to die, so stop interrupting me."

"Okay." he said sadly.

"I want you to know that I don't blame you. I made my choices in life. I wanted to fight with you. And," He stopped and took a few breaths, "I wanted to thank you for being my friend. You were my best friend. I know that you sometimes wanted something else, and I'm sorry I couldn't, well, I hate to disappoint you but I was very, very straight. So I'm sorry I couldn't be more. But I love you. You're so stupid and you're thoughtless, you're selfish, you're a show-off. You hate being wrong and you can't stand to lose. My very best mate and the best man."

He stopped again and Sherlock felt down his wrist for a pulse. It was slow and thready but still there. Sherlock, there was so much that Sherlock wanted to say but nothing that he could say. There were no words for what he felt right now and trying to put it into speech would be clumsy and never do it justice. But he had to say something.

"Thank you for being my friend." Sherlock finally managed to get out. "I didn't deserve it."

"Please tell Molly...something brave and lovely, and then tell her that I said it, alright?"

"I will."

"Look out for Jamie. Make sure she doesn't turn him into some scared kid, and Carrie too, make sure she knows about her Dad. I don't want her to forget me."

"I will." he said again. "John I just want to tell you that-"

He was cut off again by a fierce squeeze of his hand which seemed to drain the last of John's energy. "You're always trying to have the last word, aren't you?"

"Yes." Sherlock admitted.

"Well, gotcha." John told him triumphantly. He was not gone right away, he held onto Sherlock's hand firmly for a few more minutes, Sherlock ordering him and then resorting to pleading and begging for him to just hold on for the ambulance. He finally found words and poured them all out, telling John that he had been utterly alone in a world full of people, that he had those he called friends but that they were always beneath him. How he thought that was how life would be, that part of being so intelligent was knowing you were better than everyone else, and how lonely it was, how he had wanted to feel things so badly and that was why he had turned to drugs. He told John that he was the first person, and the only person that Sherlock had ever considered his equal. Then he told John that he had been wrong, because John wasn't equal, he was better than him. If thought that if he just kept talking, everything would be alright. He convinced himself that he could hear the ambulance sirens in the distance. John would be saved. If he could just hang on.

But seven minutes after he had last spoken, he gave one last sighing shudder of his body, and then he was gone.


	23. Chapter 23

**AERIALS~ A Sherlock fanfiction by hrlyqin~ Chapter 23**

The world became a quiet place. Everything was noiseless and utterly unmoving. Sherlock was aware that Jamie was in the room with him but he was only aware of this on the level that someone is aware of Mars. He knew it but it didn't affect him in the least. John was dead. There was a small boy sitting on the floor next to him. These two facts were light years away.

In the moments immediately after, Sherlock had frantically searched his vast mental stores for something to do. He could perform CPR, or the wiring from the plug in the wall to use as a directly applied current on John's chest. He could stitch the wound. He could take

_The Body_

and put it in a tub of ice to stave off decay. He knew that all of these actions would be useless but going over options staved off the moment where he would need to accept what had happened. When he had been forced to recognize that he was impotent to help John now, that was when time and sound and reality had simply stopped for him. If he just sat here, how long would it take for he himself to die? He could lay down on the floor and allow himself to expire. It would be like going to sleep after a long day. He wouldn't need to think anymore. He wouldn't have to face a world without John Watson in it. Was it the best solution?

Perhaps, if he were to get up right now and try to leave this place, he would discover that nothing else existed anymore. He couldn't believe that somewhere right now people were marrying and fucking and being born, getting pizza and drying their hair, going about their daily lives like the universe had not just radically changed. Surely everything was frozen in a state of despair. Surely it was raining, it must be. Surely the entire planet felt this loss.

Later, he did not know how much later, men came. They roughly shoved him aside and started touching

_The Body _

John. They wore gloves and spoke rapidly to each other in words Sherlock didn't comprehend. One of them remained while the other left the room to make some calls. These men brought more men, men in suits who tried to communicate with Sherlock. Were they insane, wanting to talk to him right now? He refused. They put their hands on him and moved him further away from John, forcing him to stand. A woman in a pencil skirt picked up Jamie. When the boy started screaming, Sherlock may have punched someone, he wasn't sure. It didn't really matter anyway.

.

.

.

**If brother has green ladder arrest brother -SH**

_Sherlock tapped out the message with quick, studied fingers and then handed the phone back to the other man, who he honestly had not taken much notice of until he became of use. However, to Sherlock Holmes, not taking much notice meant observing more than the untrained eye would ever see and deducing from those minute details facts that would astound the pedestrian mind. In other words, although Sherlock hadn't really been paying attention to the stranger, he already knew everything about him. _

_Even as he sent the message, he asked him "Afghanistan or Iraq?" _

_When the other man seemed puzzled (no real surprise there), Sherlock repeated the question. "Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" _

_He had answered the question, the answer being Afghanistan which Sherlock could have guessed if given twelve seconds longer, only to ask one of his own. He wanted to know how Sherlock had known all of that. Sherlock was certain that if he answered the question, he would get that look. The one that usually proceeded violence or abjurment. The look one gives upon observation of a freak. Luckily, he was saved from answering it by Molly bringing in the coffee. She had removed her lipstick which had somewhat improved her appearance, not that he cared either way, but commenting upon it gave him further excuse to evade the question posed to him. _

_**HOW? **_

_He hadn't been ready to answer that, not yet anyway, but it hadn't kept him from showing off. "How do you feel about the violin?" he asked. When he got another confused, cautious response from the man, this Doctor John Watson, he continued. "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He even managed a smile. It looked congenial enough, you'd have to know him better to know it was a sarcastic expression. _

_The doctor blinked, then blinked again. "You told him about me?" he asked Mike. _

"_Not a word." Mike had intoned, knowing that Sherlock was enjoying strutting his brain about like a peacock showed its feathers. _

"_Then who said anything about flatmates?" _

"_I did." Sherlock said, jumping back into the conversation. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. It wasn't a difficult leap." He concluded, knotting his scarf with an extra bit of jauntiness. Normally, someone who have told him to shut up by now, it was really quite exhilarating to be allowed to go on like this. Almost as good as having the skull..._

"_How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked, again wanting to know how. _

_Sherlock ignored him, still not ready. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London." he said, not mentioning that if he really wanted it, he could have it to himself at a ridiculously reduced rate although that would put him in a difficult position with Mrs. Hudson. He had planned to keep himself scarce for five to six weeks then go moping to her that no one wanted to share the space with him, how impossible it was to find someone willing to accept all his little quirks and peculiarities, and then give her large plaintive eyes until she just let him have the run of the place. Perhaps bringing this little man around to meet her would help make his argument stronger. Or even, maybe..._

_Or this peculiar little soldier doctor might be indeed willing to put up with all the Sherlockness that was Sherlock. He thought it extremely unlikely, as friends and lovers had tried before and failed spectacularly, but it might just be worth a try. His mind wandered for a second, then he took command once more of the room and its inhabitants, pulling their attention back fully to him. "Together we ought to be able to afford it. We meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." _

_Again, the man blinked. Several times. Perhaps it was a nervous compulsion. Sherlock was nearly out the door when he turned and said, "Is that it?" _

"_Is that what?" Sherlock replied, his perfect theatrical exit ruined. He circled back towards potential flatmate #4. _

"_We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?" John asked, smiling as if it had to be some sort of put-on. But his smile was kind, he was not repelled by the idea at least. If anything, he was amused. _

"_Problem?"_

_John looked at Mike, at Sherlock, and at Mike again. Mike refused to get involved, keeping the same genial expression on his face. Seeing that he would have no assistance, John puffed himself up and told Sherlock in a stern, slightly scolding tone, "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name." _

_Sherlock appreciated the organized nature of the statement and the thought process behind it. John had not said that for all he knew, Sherlock could be some kind of maniac. He hadn't wondered how Sherlock would pay his share of the rent or even commented on what type of person hung around hospitals and morgues. He had instead volleyed reasonable, logical concerns at him. Sherlock decided to push just a little bit more to see how easily John Watson would be scared off. He let loose on him with the full force of his mind, the way a tidal wave is loosed upon the shore. _

"_I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic. Quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on, don't you think?" he finished with a little flourish, swinging himself back towards the door. Out of the corner of his eye and off the reflective surfaces in the room, he could see John's pursed lips and continued blinking. Not being able to resist, Sherlock paused in the open doorway and told him, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street" He gave a wink and a click of the tongue before telling Mike to have a good afternoon and swept away before his exit could be ruined again. _

_Walking out of the hospital, he found himself examining the possibilities for what tomorrow evening at seven pm would bring. There was a large chance John would just not show up, most wouldn't after they'd had time to digest Sherlock. Or he would already have decided that Sherlock was unstable but still want the prime apartment so he would have all sorts of demands and rules for their living space. Mike could wind up telling Sherlock off for getting shirty with a perfectly valid flatmate. Or still, the greatest possibility, the most unlikely of them all but one that danced cloyingly around in Sherlock's thoughts, the chance that John and he could cohabitate together and further more, that this small conversation in the sterile room would be something Sherlock would later look back on as a point when his life was changed. _

He did not know then, could not have known no matter how intelligent he was, how correct he was in that last assumption or how many moments between then and now that he would come to regret bitterly as chances he would never have again. Moments like sand that slipped through his fingers.


	24. Chapter 24

**Aerials by hrlyqin ~ Chapter 24**

He awoke in the midst of a pitch black night and at first was not sure why. It wasn't until he heard the insistent chirping of his phone that his brain began to shape itself into something resembling thought again and he figured out what it was.

Work, it had to be. Always was.

That's what the missus used to say, back when there still was one. The phone would wake her as well as him and she'd say, 'Whose that?', he say 'Who do you think?' and she'd answer 'Work, it has to be. Always is.' then tell him she loved him, turn over and go back to sleep while he slunk out to face whatever serial killer or sex maniac the world had to offer up. Now that she wasn't there, he said it to himself as he grabbed his phone to answer it.

"Lestrade here."

It was Connors on the other end. He could just barely put a face to a name, young kid with acne scars who looked all of 12. He heard what the lad was saying but he couldn't quite comprehend it. He had to tell the boy to repeat himself.

"They asked for you specifically, so I'm sorry to disturb you but you better come down right away." Connors said again, speaking slowly and loudly as if they had a bad connection. "There was a double murder at 1180 Sellesby, residence of Mycroft Holmes."

"Jesus. Who'er the deceased?"

"One is currently unidentified, the other is...was...John H. Watson. I'm told he was an acquaintance, Sir, and I'm sorry."

Well that was a good damn reason for being woken up. Christ. Molly. The kid...whatshisname... Jamie, and didn't they just have another one? Right, a little girl. So that began to explain things. But right now, strictly speaking, he was thinking like a human being still. A side effect of being woken up so suddenly. If he were thinking like a cop, then a phone call to an old friend was a nice thing to do but not something you'd really bother with right away. They certainly wouldn't ask you round to the station for it. Unless you were a suspect, which he knew he wasn't because he knew he didn't do it. It took him a minute of thinking until he came around to what it must be.

"Suspects?" Lestrade asked, even though he knew the answer.

"They're holding that detective Holmes." Connor's voice became the whisper of a gossipy housewife. "He's covered in blood and not saying anything. Seriously, you should come down here urgently."

"I'm on my way."

He hung up, grabbed the cleanest clothes he could put his hands on quickly and got dressed in a whirlwind. When he left the house his tie was still at half mast and his socks didn't even match. He got in his car and on the road by luck alone.

John dead. He'd been at the man's wedding. A good man. A damn shame. Young kids at home. And that wasn't even the worst of it. No, the worst of it was sitting in custody probably running his mouth like a damn smart ass because he couldn't help doing so. But no, Connors had said he wasn't saying a word, which meant either he clammed up and refused to talk, or he literally was not speaking. Lestrade thought the latter was true. Sherlock and John...if the loss of John set Lestrade's world tilting, then Sherlock must feel like he'd lost an arm or a leg or something else inexplicably familiar, dependable and his. He knew that he mustn't panic, that he needed to keep a level head for whatever shitstorm lay ahead of him, but he couldn't help his heart rising into his throat. He had to pull over.

His hand was shaking. He looked at it to see and it was shaking. He needed to pull himself together. This wouldn't help anyone and Sherlock, even on his best day could only be left unsupervised for so long. What would a Sherlock would had lost his best friend be like? He needed to get down there before they drew and quartered him.

Forcing himself to breathe evenly, he steered the car back in to traffic. The faces of John, Sherlock and Molly kept flashing in front of him, blocking out of the other cars on the road, but he didn't stop again. He said the few prayers he knew aloud, to keep his mind from derailing, then his officer's attestation. Rule, Brittania!The phone numbers of all the old girlfriends he could remember. As he finally got steady and drove like a sane individual, he was reciting " But we in it shall be remembered, We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother; be he never so vile, this day shall gentle his condition. And gentlemen in England now abed shall think themselves accursed they were not here." He kept going with that, and then anything else he had committed to memory or picked up at university, until when he finally pulled in to find proper parking it was, "The fucking cops are fucking keen to fucking keep it fucking clean, the fucking chief's a fucking swine who fucking draws a fucking line, at fucking fun and fucking games. The fucking kids he fucking blames."

He managed to hold still and not be talking to himself like a simpleton by the time he got inside. In his head, he still had a line of poetry or dirty limericks running but he kept his mouth shut while he got read in on the situation. Sherlock really wasn't saying a thing, not even to call people idiots. They had found him sitting next to John's body and Jamie had been with them both. Sherlock didn't respond to the officers when they entered the room but he threw a fit when Jamie was taken off the scene. He threw some punches, he landed a few too, and then allowed himself to be handcuffed and put into the back of a police car. Details on some things were still sketchy, but anyone who had ever met Sherlock had no problem believing he was a violent killer who suddenly snapped and offed his best friend just for the hell of it.

As he was listening to the rest of it, Lestrade knew that this was a moment of decision, ever so much more important than every time he had been asked "Are you letting that lunatic in here?". Before he could do anything, he needed to choose whose side he was going to be on. More of that un-cop-like thinking. Really, he did no more than reflect over a decade's worth of memories and he had his answer.

"Look, Inspector, I appreciate you calling me in on this and I don't want to take over your case." he lied, because he'd like nothing better actually, "But I think you're going in the wrong direction. I know Sherlock Holmes, he's weird, he puts people off and sometimes, he seems like he's just not right in his head but he would never, no matter what the cause, hurt John Watson. He was his best friend."

"You'd put your name up on that?" The inspector, whose name was Atkins, not someone Lestrade really knew, asked him.

"I'd bet my life on it." Lestrade said solemnly.

"Well the evidence..."

"It's been five hours. How much evidence do you really have?"

"He was found on the scene." Atkins countered.

"Right in the middle of a big damn mess, it's where he usually is, but this...he would not do this."

"That's not what the wife is saying."

That was news. "Molly's here?"

"She's in with Smith right now, singing a pretty tune about your friend Holmes there and his homosexual advances towards John Watson."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "That was nothing."

"She doesn't think so."

"So what, he lures John to his brother's house and kills him in a little boy's bedroom? I don't care how much people hate Sherlock, they won't buy that."

"If he's innocent why isn't he talking?"

"Be glad of that, trust me. Let me have a crack at him." Lestrade offered. "He might open up to me."

When Atkins looked hesitant, Lestrade pressed on, "Isn't this why you had them call me?"

.

.

.

There were a few photos in the hastily assembled file Lestrade was looking at, so he knew it would be bad, but he wasn't prepared for how bad. Sherlock was in an interrogation room, looking more disheveled than Lestrade could say he had ever seen him. The blood which the police were so interested in had dried in sticky patches on his clothes, marring the tight white dress shirt and splattered across the jagged cut of Sherlock's cheek bones. He was handcuffed and alone, but as a courtesy someone had set out a cup of coffee in front of him. It looked cold and untouched.

When Lestrade came in, Sherlock did not even move his head. He was staring off into nothingness. Lestrade sat down next to him and patiently unlocked the handcuffs, aware that they were being watched and scrutinized. "Sherlock." he said to him. "Sherlock, look at me. It's going to be alright now."

Finally there was an elegant sideways sweep of hair and the slow movement of Sherlock to face him. Sherlock's eyes, which were always so knowing, were like lasers right now and Lestrade felt like the weight of their gaze could burn him. "No, Detective Inspector, it is not going to be alright. I don't think it ever will be again."

"Well, no, obviously, but...d'you realize what's going on here?"

"Do I realize.." Sherlock muttered, "Are you seriously questioning my ability to observe the clearly obvious?"

"Just asking."

"Yes, I realize that the men beyond that pane of glass think that I murdered John. I am disliked and it would be very easy to pin this crime on me. Considering that the culprit was deeply involved in a vast criminal network, I fully expect that corrupt members of the police and judicial system will assure that." After so much silence, Sherlock practically spat the words out with harsh speed. "No great loss."

His nostrils flared for a moment, and despite the circumstances, it really was as if the regular Sherlock had returned, then his eyes dimmed down and he asked "Where is Jamie?"

"He's safe."

"And Mycroft, has anyone found him?"

"In the yard outside. He's in surgery still." Lestrade did not add that prospects were not good for the older brother. He didn't think Sherlock could take that right now. "Could he support your story?"

"I haven't given a story and no, by the time I arrived Mycroft was nowhere in sight, as usual, when he is needed."

"Okay so Mycroft wasn't there?" Lestrade asked, trying not to sound eager. It was a beginning at least.

Sherlock sighed deeply. He closed his eyes. "I really do not wish to explain this to you right now."

"You've got to tell someone eventually. Cooperate, it will make things easier."

"No." he shouted. "I mean that I don't want to talk about this! I do not want to recount this to you, not now and not ever. Put me in prison, I don't care, but do not ask me to relive-" he broke off abruptly in mid-rage. Lestrade was sure he was going to say 'John's death' or something like it, but he couldn't bring himself too.

"I know." he told Sherlock quietly. "You might not think I do, but believe me, **I know**. I'm here as your friend Sherlock, and I wouldn't ask if I didn't think you needed to get your story out now. Help me make sense of all this, please."

After he spoke, he waited. Sherlock would either tell him or not tell him. No further pleading would help. For everything he knew, he was sure Sherlock was already ten steps ahead of him. He would just have to hope that reason would win out.

It didn't quickly, that was for sure. He eventually went out, got two coffees and came back. He kept one for himself and pushed away the cold one from Sherlock, presenting him with a fresh one. He didn't ask him anything else, just offered the coffee and did some more waiting.

Finally, Sherlock told him, "The other dead man is James Beecher. He was Moriarty's brother. He did this, although I did not witness it. I shot him." He actually sipped the coffee, which Lestrade marveled at. "Beecher was there in pursuit of my brother, this all relates to an incident at his home which my nephew can describe to you, just before Mycroft's last hospitalization. My life was not in danger when I shot Beecher with my illegal firearm. I took his life in cold blood. Tell them to arrest me."

"Sherlock, if this guy was there to attack Mycroft, if he killed John,"

"I have no doubt that he killed John, but it was my fault. If John did not know me, he would have never been there. If Mycroft and myself had made different decisions, better ones, he would not have been there. I may not have wielded the blade, but John's death was my fault." He sounded no longer so angry or contemptuous, just tired and sad. "Do you get it now? I want them to arrest me. I expect you to help me with this, Gregory, if you really are here to help. If they don't, I'm only going to kill myself anyway."

.

.

.

.

**Author Notes: I feel like everyone is enjoying the big finale so far, thank you for all your reviews and please keep them coming. It was a lot of fun for me to write a Lestrade chapter, even if it was somewhat grim, hope you liked it too. For clarification, the two recitations Lestrade runs through are the St Crispin's Day Speech from _Henry V _and '_Evidently Chickentown'_ by John Cooper Clarke. **


	25. Chapter 25

**Aerials by hrlyqin ~ Chapter 25**

Sherlock Holmes was not himself these days. That was the only explanation for the lapse in judgment that brought him here. Granted, he had experienced a very rough few days but that was no excuse. He would in the future always remember that even when they were playing at being your friend, a policeman was always a policeman...And Lestrade, as much as it would pain him to admit it, was slightly more intelligent than the average London copper, undoubtedly a side effect of years spent with Holmes, so really, this was all Sherlock's fault.

He had been speaking out of grief when he said he planned to kill himself. Given time, he would have thought it through a little more. In fact, that was what he had done for the past 16 hours, think things through. When he got out of this tiny room, he would find the nearest reputable cocaine dealer, he would then buy what would have in the past been a month's supply, and he would take it all at once. This would eliminate several of Sherlock's problems, which he had listed on the wall beside him in an effort to aide his thinking process:

Life W/O John. _If he died of an overdose, obviously this issue was laid to rest. _

Blame for John's death. _Death was a punishment, even if it was self-inflicted. _

Ending the cycle.

This last one he had ruminated upon a great deal. Once upon a time, Sherlock encountered a career criminal who called himself Moriarty. While other crimes tended to be stifling and banal, Moriarty had offered Sherlock an enticing game. He had enjoyed it. This indulgence had almost gotten his best friend killed. He hadn't learned from that. When Molly found herself pregnant, Sherlock had again fallen prey to his curiosity and he and Mycroft had convoluted this plot to raise the child and see what happened. Again, his silly intellectual pursuits had led to the side of a waterfall, the severe injury of his dear friend as well as his brother and the terrorizing of a small child. Finally and lastly, he had come across James Beecher. The other Jamie, as Sherlock referred to him mentally. Sherlock had modified his behavior somewhat but found himself amidst so many distractions pulling him in so many directions; his brother's health, John's family needs, Jamie, that he had not devoted himself solely to the elimination of the threat.

Now, that had cost him everything.

He knew that if he continued to live, as much as he thought he had learned, he would only make the same mistakes again. He couldn't help it. If would want answers to questions better left silent. He would allow situations to linger when they should be decisively stamped out. Inevitably, someone else would get hurt because of his curiosity. If he were dead, the people he surrounded himself with would be safe. That was a small measure of comfort at least.

But he had to speak his thoughts to Lestrade, another mistake. After he had done that, Sherlock had found himself in short order arrested and placed in custody. When he asked the charges, it had something to do with the gun he used at Mycroft's house and they were likely valid. Sherlock had then reasoned that getting himself killed by another person in detention would not exactly be difficult, he would only have to open his mouth. Lestrade had once again vexed him by placing Sherlock in isolation, in a rarely used holding cell for 'special circumstances'. Logically, he knew that he should in within the process of justice right now but he expected this was more of Lestrade's meddling, he had persuaded a few 'old buddies' to just let him 'stew' for awhile so they could 'keep an eye on him'. All that cop talk. So he was thwarted again. Sadly, the only visitor he had was not the homicidal type.

She had come to him looking earnest and weepy: The Widow Watson. An officer had escorted her, no doubt to protect her from horrible Sherlock Holmes. He had heard some of the things she said, about his murderous lust for her husband and how he had hounded John with his unwanted affections. She had sung an opera of indecency about him and as great as he knew her loss was, when she came he could only look at her with loathing.

She walked up to him, looked him in the face and said, "I don't care what they tell me or what the evidence says or who goes to prison. John is dead because of you. You got your best friend killed, and I... I really hope that finally gets through to you."

Her voice had been clearer and more certain than he had ever heard it before. Before he could reply, she had left without a glance back. If he had gotten a chance to speak, he would have only said he agreed with her entirely, but she didn't even allow him that.

After she had gone, the thought crossed his mind that he would probably never see Jamie again. His heavy heart got a little bit heavier at that. Jamie the experiment. Would the boy be better off without him? Likely, yes, but it hurt all the same, and not just because there was still so much to learn. Well, at least he would never have to worry about Jamie setting off on some heroic quest to 'kill the man who killed my father', like the man in the pirate/fencing/giant movie Jamie liked so much. No, at least Sherlock had been allowed to do that much for him.

But when he was gone, as he had decided he would be soon, who would answer the questions Jamie would have? Molly could, but she would lie, it was what mothers did and they did so out of love. Mycroft...god no, the thought chilled him. Maybe if Molly was kind she'd let Mrs. Hudson come over for a cuppa and talk about the old days with her boys at 221B. Mrs. Hudson would probably paint him and John a damn sight better than they had been, but that was alright with him. As for all the questions Jamie would have when he got older, about who his father really was and what life meant and all that other stuff, Sherlock could only hope that the boy would be smart enough to find answers for himself.

He sighed deeply in a melodramatic mire. It was not so much the end of his life that troubled him, but the legacy he would leave. How would the world remember the great Sherlock Holmes?

Time passed, but again he was not exactly sure of how much. This must be the manipulations of those petty people with power, no way a mere gun charge had him shuttled here to rot unnoticed, only his thoughts to keep him company. Normally, this would not be a discomfort but his thoughts were almost entirely of John now. He had deconstructed and reconstructed their every shared moment and triumph, until there were only the tiniest things to remember. Small smiles, stupid jokes and the like. John's insistence that Sherlock put away his experiments and watch this movie or that television marathon. The time that Sherlock had steadfastly refused to watch any more Doctor Who with John after the outrageous twists of science grew too much for him. John's plans for his future, one he would never have now. He had hoped Jamie would go out for the junior football club soon, so that John could be one of those dads watching the games and shouting things like "That's my boy!". When Sherlock had countered that Jamie was much more likely to request a chemistry set and begin a bug collection, John had shrugged and said he would just be one of those science fair dads then and maybe Carrie could go for sports.

Carrie...for all the things Sherlock had observed in Jamie that were reminiscent of John, Carolyn was John's biological daughter and she lingered on his mind too. Would she have John's smile when she grew older? His fearless spirit? Would she tilt her head sideways when she got annoyed, the way John did?

_The way John **had**. _

It was a tantalizing thought and Sherlock wished he would be there to see it.

Sherlock was caught up in these thoughts when his solitude was finally disturbed. Looking over and seeing it was Lestrade, Sherlock gave a tremendous sigh. "Are we bringing out the leg irons next?"

"Firing squad." Lestrade joked as he came forward and released Sherlock from his cage. "I'm to take you somewhere."

"You are to take me somewhere?" Sherlock sat up and then rose to his full height, stretching to work all the knots out of his body. He was certain that his clothes were in disarray, he could feel wrinkles curling into them. The stubble of a beard scratched at his skin. He was fairly certain he smelled too. But he was still smarter than all of them. "There are few people you take orders from, and it if were the police they would not have felt the need to send you. Unless you asked to come, which you didn't. That can only mean that you are here on errand from my brother, which in turn can only mean that he is alive and well. That's almost disappointing."

"Well if you'd rather stay here and sulk..." he made a move to close the gate again and Sherlock rushed past him. Even Mycroft was better than this.

They did not speak much on the ride. Lestrade has asked Sherlock a simple _How Are You? _And Sherlock had replied with such a magnificent glare that both of them had kept quiet after that. Lestrade took him to the hospital, not the usual, a private deal that was rather posh for a place you went only when injured. Not leaving Sherlock for a moment, Lestrade led him straight to the door of Mycroft's room and after confirming that Mycroft was inside and awake, all but shoved Sherlock inside and left the two brothers to has it out.

The elder was abed and looked much the way Sherlock felt. His skin was a terrible pale peach color and he had enough tubes and cords coming out of him to qualify as bionic. Since neither of them spoke, Sherlock had time to examine Mycroft as he was sure Mycroft was examining him. He looked so _**old**_, Sherlock noted, in fact he was beginning to resemble their father in a way which frightened him. The tasteful bits of gray just at his temples, the way his brow arched commandingly. It was like seeing a ghost.

Apart from his appearance, Sherlock made cursory observations of the medical equipment and finally said, "Your heart?"

To which Mycroft patted his chest painfully and shifted the awful hospital gown to reveal a fresh scar, angry and scarlet. Sherlock approached the bed to reach out and delicately touch and observe the mark more carefully, which Mycroft allowed while telling him, "It appears I will be needing a new one."

"Well, you can have mine. I'm certainly not using it."

Mycroft laughed his haughty chortle at that. "I think that is not quite the truth Sherlock, but then again when have we ever told each other quite the truth?" The moment of mirth passed quickly and was murdered when Mycroft said, "I'm so sorry about John."

Sherlock stiffened and Mycroft reached out and touched his arm, giving it a firm squeeze. Sherlock nodded and that was that.

"If it makes a difference, and I understand it doesn't, I have arranged for all those silly charges and suspicions of the police to be dropped. Dr. Watson died defending my home from an intruder, who you then killed in defense of yourself and your nephew. That is the official story."

"I see your up to all your old tricks then."

"You'd be surprised the number of people that owe me favors, Sherlock. It's taken care of. Now talk to me about this stupid suicide threat."

"It wasn't a threat." Sherlock sat in a chair that was close to Mycroft's bed. "It's a choice."

"Well, obviously I can't allow that." Mycroft said off handedly.

"_**Allow?" **_

"No, don't start, not when we're doing so well." Mycroft raised his hand quickly. "Give me a moment."

Sherlock sat back and waited until Mycroft began speaking again, which was after much longer than a moment had passed. "I know what you feel that you have lost, Sherlock. In John you found someone who you felt understood you, didn't judge you and cared about you enough to say yes when yes was called for and to say no when you needed to hear it. You see your life in two clear parts, the part before John when you felt you would be hopelessly alone forever and the part after, when perhaps you believed in something benevolent for the first time. More importantly, John felt the same way about you. You brought him back from hopelessness and made him feel like he was important. It is also a credit to both of you that you knew the importance of one another. At least you don't need to worry that he didn't know how you felt. Without that now, what is the point of going on? I understand.

"I don't know if you remember, before Jamie was born, when Molly was attacked, I told you how an agent of mine died. Violet, you've heard me speak of her and I'm sure you've asked Pierce about her. It was...a very similar situation. She was so young when she came to me, and I taught her everything. She was smart, under my tutelage she became clever. She was curious and I showed her how to be voracious. I made her what she was and yes, I cared about her very much. But in ways I never told her. When she died, there was no question that it was my fault. I taught her to hunt and I sent her out into the world. I've lost people in my employ before, many people...too many people, but she is the one I always come back to. So I know about the guilt, please believe me that I know."

"Don't compare your on-again off-again to my friendship with John." Sherlock cut in.

"I loved her. I never told her. I trained her. I created her, it could be said, and then sent her to her death. I'm comparing it, not saying it is the same."

"Well, it isn't."

"Yes, alright, stop trying to one-up me, please." He wheezed tiredly. Mycroft had not imagined this could be so exhausting. "John was the brother you found. What you have never given me ample credit for is that I am the brother you _have_, Sherlock Holmes. I have always loved you, always sought to take care of you and always wanted to understand you. I've tried my entire life and you have responded with anger, contempt and mockery. I'm sorry you lost John but _I'm_ still here and I want to help you now."

Sherlock wanted to yell at him right now. He wanted to hit him. The very idea that he would say that, the idea he thought he could ever take John's place in any way... but he didn't. He was not sure that a blow wouldn't kill Mycroft, and he was also just too damned exhausted to carry through with it.

"This is coming out all wrong, I'm afraid." Mycroft sighed. "You can't kill yourself. I won't let you. You're my brother and I love you and your death is something I simply cannot deal with right now, not ever, in fact. I know that argument won't convince you. So what can I do?"

"Nothing."

"I could force your hand, you know. Have you watched constantly, put you in prison, or in rehab again."

Sherlock muttered something that ended with "_….to see you try." _

"And you can rest assured that I will be asking Pierce about your health, even though it seems you've won his loyalty. I don't suppose me saying that John wouldn't want you to kill yourself matters, does it?"

"John's dead. He doesn't want anything anymore."

"Then what about Jamie?"

"Molly is never going to let me see him again. She'll probably take him as far from here as possible and it would be the smart thing for her to do."

"What if I told you that I could persuade her?"

"Mycroft, I-"

"Shhh, don't interrupt me. Here is what I propose to you: I will speak to Molly and convince her that allowing you to see Jamie would be the best thing for the boy to help him deal with John's death, at least for now. I'm sure you there are things you'd like Jamie to know about John, things you need to say to him. So I will arrange it. There is also the funeral to plan, I will make sure you are involved in John's final rest. The service, the headstone, division of property, these things all take time. Six months, as I figure it. I will see to it that you can spend time with Jamie and have say in how John is laid to rest. In return, you will delay your suicide plans for six months. After that, if you still want to kill yourself, I won't argue with you about it."

"You think this will pass?" Sherlock snapped at him. "I'm not going to just get over it like...like me not getting what I wanted for Christmas, Mycroft."

"Well, then, you will get to be right and make sure I am wrong one last time. But give me the six months. For Jamie's sake."

Sherlock clenched his jaw and rubbed at his temples. He was tired, too tired to be dealing with this right now. "God do I hate you sometimes."

"Is that a yes?"


	26. Chapter 26

**Aerials by hrlyqin ~ Chapter 26**

The boat rocked on the water. The lake was deep red and familiar to Mycroft, full of all the blood he had spilled and the people he had failed. Hands reached up from the depths seeking him, wanting to drag him down. He couldn't fight it, he was so very very tired. Falling into the salty liquid was almost a relief, and the hands caressed him like lovers even as they dragged him down.

The blood surrounded him, covering his head. It was warm and the only noise was a steady whoosh-whoosh that kept time with his heart. He closed his eyes and thought about how weary he had grown. Maybe he could just stay in the water for awhile until he ran out of air and stopped caring. It might be the only way he would ever get to relax.

But all too soon, something was dragging him up. As he broke the surface he found himself not in a lake but in his office, being dragged up from the deep red carpet that sat on the floor. The hands that pulled him were slick and slippery but unrelenting. He was hauled up on to solid ground and then lips pressed to his, forcing air into him, lingering longer than needed. Even as he turned his head to spit and cough, the lips stayed on his cheek and the hands stayed wrapped up in his.

"Run." she was whispering to him.

"No, let me rest a little longer." he tried insisting.

But he was pulled and pushed until he was on his feet. Her warm figure pressed itself to him and he sensed that both of them were savoring what could be the last time they were so close. "I'm sorry." she said. "I'm so, so sorry, but now you have to run."

She pushed him away from her and that was when he woke up, his heart giving a jump when as he did. A nurse, but not the right nurse at all, was pushing something into his IV. "Good morning Mr. Holmes, how are we feeling?" She smiled to him and then to the doctor that was hovering there, looking at a chart. When Mycroft felt no need to answer her, the doctor continued with what he had been saying.

"I'd like to run some more blood tests so make sure we get enough for sampling."

"Yes doctor."

"And keep him awake this time."

"Yes doctor." the nurse rolled her eyes but only Mycroft saw it. When the doctor breezed away, she said, "I'm sorry about him, he's such an ass."

"You would think with the money I'm paying I could afford one of the nice doctors."

That made her laugh merrily. "Yeah, let me know if you find one of those. Get as much rest as you need, Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you..." he struggled to recall her name. "Cetrine." Yes, Cetrine, that was it. Cetrine the nurse who lived with her mother and was just a huge fan of Dr. Watson's blog. She had been so upset to hear of his passing and quizzed Mycroft a little bit more than was proper about it, but as she said, she was such a big fan. He had heard her angrily hissing in the hallway that she couldn't believe she had missed meeting Sherlock when he had been here. Mycroft corrected his thoughts of what his money should buy to not just a nice doctor but also a professional nurse.

The one who helped him get cleaned up was a little bit better, but also male. Mycroft endured a chilly sponge bath because he knew that Molly was coming by, he had phoned her and wheedled with her grief until she promised she would come by to speak with him. Mycroft had fallen asleep worrying how exactly he could keep his bargain with his brother without slighting Molly's feelings. He had no real plan to speak of apart from diving in with honesty and tenderness and seeing what it got him.

The moment she came in, he knew that compassion wouldn't be difficult. Instead of awkward ceremony and restrained politeness, Molly rushed over to him and hugged him tightly and he found himself hugging her back. She was apologizing to him and thanking him for keeping Jamie safe and saying how glad she was that he was alright, he was telling her how grieved he was for her loss and asking her how Jamie was and if she needed anything.

In other words, their normal relationship but fast-forwarded through the stammering and pauses and niceties.

When they broke apart, Molly was sniffling and he could see that must be her default action now. Her eyes were puffy, her face was drained of color and he suspected she hadn't eaten anything substantial today. "I'm apologize for bothering you at a time like this." he said.

"No, I mean, you didn't bother me, but yes it's a bad time but I had planned on coming to see you anyway so it's alright." she said, tripping all over her words as usual.

"I won't keep you for long. I need to speak with you about...something delicate." he said slowly.

"Mycroft, please don't." she pleaded.

"I know you don't want to hear what I am about to say but someone needs to say it."

"No, they don't, no one needs to say anything _please." _

"He's my brother, Molly." Mycroft reasoned.

"He's an arrogant, careless, reckless, selfish coward. Maybe if he had been able to fight his own battles John wouldn't be dead right now." Her anger was fantastic and as much as she had been a simpering mess a moment ago, she was now a bright, fierce thing. "Maybe if once, just once he could have done something on his own, John would be alive. He didn't need to ask him to go. He never needed to, but he always did anyway. A married man with children to worry about shouldn't be gallivanting around getting shot at because of his idiot friend."

"You know Sherlock is hurting as badly as you are."

"I bet." she sneered.

"And the things you said to the police, although not entirely untrue, did not make matters easier for me to clear up."

"I just told them how he was always...mooning around about my husband. I didn't steal him away, if he wanted...that, he could have ha-had it whenever he wanted, but he picked me and Sherlock could never get over it."

"I don't disagree with you." He rubbed her hand to calm her down, get her breathing normally. "But you know that Sherlock would never have wanted anything to happen to John, you know he would rather be dead right now."

"Funny I'd rather he were dead too."

He chuckled a little bit. It was not funny at all, truly not, but he chuckled anyway. "If Sherlock were not a magnificent asshole we wouldn't recognize him, but I've never seen him like this before Molly. I think he means to kill himself this time."

"So...lock him up or something." She shrugged flippantly, and Mycroft was startled. He hardly recognized this woman before him.

"I want to speak truths to you right now Molly. I know I haven't always, but will you let me?" He asked politely, mixing in a bit of Jane Austen politeness in a hope to crack her newly hardened shell. Funny, he had pictured her falling apart, crying and screaming, he had not factored in a strong and angry Molly at all.

"Go ahead."

"You know that Sherlock would not wish any harm on John. His only real crime was needing John at his side and that at least is something understandable. You also know that John could have said no. Unfortunately, the man you loved was one who could not stand aside while his friend was in danger, he could not sit idly by when someone might have harmed Jamie and even, perhaps, would not let me be harmed only because of how much he would hurt you. There was trouble and Sherlock rushed in because he cannot stand to keep his nose out of things, John followed because that is what good men do. It was the only thing he could have done and that was one of the reasons you loved him so much. You can be angry at Sherlock all you like, I won't say he doesn't deserve it, but you can't blame him entirely."

Mycroft let the words hang and held her hand. She stewed over what he said and finally sighed, starting to cry . "It was his fault, it was." she insisted sadly.

"And John's, and mine for putting us all in such danger. Are you going to hate me too?"

"I could never." Even though right now she wanted to right now, he could tell.

"Then I need you to do something for me. A hospital bed request."

"Don't-"

"Both of you just lost the most important man in the world to you. Please just let him help. I'll facilitate it, or Pierce, if that makes it easier. They were best friends."

"I'm not going to speak to him." she threw out, which was her way of giving in even though she was unimaginably angry. She never could say no to him. Mycroft let her sit quietly by his bedside while she tried to work through giving him what he wanted. She hated Sherlock and she was not wrong in what she said about him, but she wanted to understand and maybe, she wanted to share the pain a little bit.

"Everything is just such..." There was a bite of her lip, a tremble in her body, how quickly her strength had left her. Even with Mycroft's heart full of other people, he wanted to kiss her when she trembled like that. It made him a horrible person, he knew. "It's such a mess. Such a...such a fucking mess! What am I supposed to do now?"

"Live." he said, allowing himself to touch her hair and put it back into place. "That's the least any of us can do. Just live, and everything else will work itself out."

"I think I might leave the city." she confessed. "I was thinking, I could get a head posting in a smaller town, and maybe the country air would be good for Jamie. Lots of room to run around and play. I'd never try to take Jamie away from you, of course, there's just so many memories here."

"I know what you mean."

"So you wouldn't be upset?"

Mycroft let himself shrug, albeit a bit stiffly. "You can't stay here just to keep this old man from getting lonely."

"You could come visit us whenever you'd like, and anytime you want to see Jamie you can. He could take the train, it'd be like an adventure for him. And I mean, you know, if you wanted to see me too, not that...I'm not hitting on you or anything, I just lost, and I mean-you know, we're friends, so if you needed a friend you could come see me too, or something.."

He patted her hand before she could embarrass herself further. "Thank you Molly. Let's not worry about it right now."

Sensing that the conversation was over, she shook her head as she got up. Here she was, she had lost her husband, was at odds with Sherlock and was facing the prospect of being a single parent. She had a baby at home and her son had just witnesses several violent crimes (again), so what she said and did next was startling. Before she could over think the concept, she managed she express what she had been trying to say in a much more eloquent manner. Leaning down, she kissed his forehead quickly. "I always worry about you. Someone has to."

And then she was gone.

After that, all of Mycroft's time was occupied by Sherlock's legal problems, intervening on behalf of Sherlock with Molly and on behalf of Molly with Sherlock, tying up all the loose ends of the case file, being deposed and in general, making sure everything was neat and tidy before he went under the knife. He had spoken to Jamie on the phone, he didn't want Molly bringing him to the hospital, and Sherlock had sent him several text messages that bordered on kind. So when it was time for the operation (the wheels of government really did move quickly), he felt as if more or less everything was taken care of, should be perish.

On the surface, anyway.

He was lying on the table, drugged, thoughts drifting aimlessly when it occurred to him: if he were to die here, right now, his only legacy in life would be his ability to fix everyone's problems. No one would write any eulogies about the elections in Beirut or the Canadian Border Defense plan he had a hand in. So much of his work couldn't even be discussed, and what could be seemed frightfully...dull. He had spent his fifty-odd years on the planet cleaning up after Sherlock, then eventually after Molly and John too. He changed the course of history for third world nations in secret backroom meetings. He had killed, but only when necessary. He had run too, but only when absolutely necessary He had thought it a fine life for a man loyal to the crown, a life of secret service. But not really the life he had wanted.

Some time ago, he had come to accept that the wife and kids and puppy were not in the cards for him, but how much he wished there had been more like that for him. He had loved women, even a man or two, but he never really fought for that love, it was never a priority. People flitted in and out of his life and he let them because there was always a job or a mission that was more important. Even when he had been nearly mortally wounded, his mind felled by injury, he had simply wanted to get back to work. Even Sherlock had stopped, however petulantly, and took time to make sure he was going to be okay, but he had pushed all of them away just wanting his computer and his files and power games back.

And if he died today, that would be all there ever was. At least John had a family. That was the true legacy of Watson; the people that had loved him and who would never be the same for his loss. Cold and vulnerable waiting to be cut open, Mycroft didn't think the same could be said for him.


	27. Chapter 27

**Aerials**

**A Sherlock! Fanfiction by hrlyqin**

**Chapter 27 – Six Months Later**

He was having the dream about that night again. It always began the same way, with her voice a whisper on the phone telling him to turn all the surveillance off and him, lovestruck fool, listening to her and missing so much. He didn't notice the peculiar timbre in her voice or how frightened she seemed. He couldn't observe or deduce a thing, he was so blinded. So he had listened to her, shut off his cameras and waited eagerly.

Then her appearing at the front door and being let into the house, only to be followed by the man with the smile and the gun. Lots of talk about killing his brother and suffering inherent. He had called her a traitor, they both had, while she cried and pleaded. She said it didn't need to end this way. James Beecher had started cutting her, he wanted Mycroft to see it. The struggle as her clothes were ripped, hands bruising the skin of her breasts while a blade cut into her. Mycroft had shouted angrily, a furious storm, and the men had struggled until the tightness began in his chest. He knew what it was and tried to fight it, even as he collapsed.

His sleeping mind filled in the details he hadn't witnessed: Mary getting the better of Beecher for a moment and him going down onto the floor so he lay only inches from Mycroft. Mary dragging his unconscious form out of the house and into the backyard, trying to hide him. He had slipped in and out of a daze, she told him she loved him, she said she was sorry, they held each other and then she went back inside to get Jamie. He didn't know if she was ever going to come back.

He had been left helpless outside while she went back in for the child. He was lying on the grass losing control over his heart while the people he cared about fought for their lives. That was the very worst part of the dream, all the worse for it being the truth, and that was when he always woke up.

Her words still echoed in his brain when he opened his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't think, I didn't know...this isn't what I want."

He had asked her what she did want and she had said she wanted him. She had to go back inside to get Jamie, even if she hadn't cared about the boy at all, she had to do it for him.

He turned now to where she was still sleeping, undisturbed by the dreams which happened almost every night. He placed a kiss on her shoulder and she turned a little towards him, her eyes still shut. "I love you, my dearest Mary." he whispered to her. To him, she was always Mary and never Irene. Irene had been left far behind for the woman who came into his house to take care of him, and that was fine with them both. Mary was more who she wanted to be anyway, she had said.

He slipped out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor. His cell phone was silent and rarely used on the nightstand, he grabbed his watch instead. It was a good thing he had woken when he did, it was very nearly time. He padded in his stockinged feet down to the kitchen to make himself some coffee while the computer and systems powered up. A glance outside the window told him it was snowing, but that was no big surprise. It nearly always did, in this part of the world. The view offered him a mountain covered in fresh white powder, an endless expanse of pine trees and very little else. There was probably not another living soul for miles and he relished the peaceful stillness of it all before getting on with the task at hand.

He sat with his coffee, a bagel and his pill caddy, picking out everything from the Monday slot and washing it down. His brain still had it's scratchy moments, like an old record, but now that there was so little to keep track of he found it easier to keep a handle on things. Although he never used them anymore, the old passwords flowed out of his fingers like liquid as he entered in to his old security system to access the cameras on Sherlock's flat.

Nearly time now.

When he had told Sherlock he planned to leave, he took it well. Sherlock had thought about it and first said, "I suppose that means you trust me enough to leave me be." and Mycroft had laughed it off. Sherlock didn't want him to forget their six month bargain and that was just his way of reminding him.

"Oh I'll keep an eye out, don't worry."

"You won't use Pierce to do it." Sherlock had replied darkly.

"Yes, oddly enough, Pierce told me to 'stuff it' when I mentioned that I would appreciate him keeping an eye on you. How is it that you make men so loyal to you?"

"How is it that you keep tricking women into falling into bed with you?" he countered, but Mycroft knew he was pleased by Pierce's response, even if he didn't show it.

"In any case, I don't think I need to worry about you...deciding to terminate our contract early. You're too curious to see what I have up my sleeve."

"Some trick to convince me to live? It won't work." he snapped.

"But you're still curious."

Avoiding that statement entirely, Sherlock had asked, "Where do you plan to go? And who exactly is going to run the country while you're 'off on holiday'?"

"I'm not sure where I'm going. Somewhere far away. I guess I will know when I get there. As for the country, I guess I told my employers to stuff it, as Pierce would say."

"Far away?"

"As far as I can get."

Sherlock had grown introspective and finally said, "We work better when we're far away, don't you think?"

"It seems to be that way. Why do you suppose that is?"

A shrug. "Room enough for both of us to be right."

Mycroft chuckled, and Sherlock had given a wane half smile. He had not said that he loved him, or even thanked him for saving him yet again, but Sherlock had asked if Mycroft planned on keeping in touch. That was a lot for him.

Pierce had kept his word that he would not funnel information to Mycroft, even when he grew weak and asked for it. He still didn't know exactly what to make of the man and his brother. Pierce was certainly no John Watson, no one had ever accused him of being overly clever. But he was curious and adventurous and he didn't mind Sherlock's many tempers, so he supposed it worked somehow. Watching the cameras now, he saw Pierce's sleek red tressed head going to answer the door. Mycroft turned the sound up as he accepted a package.

"Hey, what is all this?" Mary said, not angry but not sounding happy with him either. She came up from behind him and made a move to close the computer.

"It isn't work." he said.

"Good, because you're Retired." she said, waiting for explanation.

"I just have to follow up on something. It isn't work, I promise." He took her hand and kissed it, that seemed to melt her ire. She rubbed her fingers along his face and traced his ear.

"Fine. Come back to bed whenever you're done not working."

"I've got a video call with Jamie in about an hour."

She kissed him. "After that?"

"After that, I am all yours."

"I'll hold you to that, Mycroft Holmes." she told him seriously as she left him to his business. He watched her leave, enjoying the sway of her body, and then he turned back to the computer.

"You've got a package." Pierce was calling out in the flat. "Something from Mycroft."

He wandered off of that camera and Mycroft changed views to follow him in to the kitchen where Sherlock had beakers and vials all over the butcher's block. "Is it a bomb?" Sherlock asked.

Pierce shook the package and gave Sherlock an eye roll. "Nope, doesn't seem to be."

His brother straightened up, pulled away from his experiment and took the parcel from Pierce, who was clearly not sure whether to stay or go while Sherlock opened it. Since he was now being ignored, Pierce opted to stay. Mycroft say Sherlock counting out something and knew he was calculating how long it had been since he and Mycroft made their bargain and wondering what this last ditch effort was, considering it was only a week until the deadline.

"Let's see just how smart Mycroft thinks he i-"

Sherlock stopped speaking upon opening the gift. He examined it, taking in every detail. A book, paperback and mass produced, in the quality you would pick up in an airport gift shop. He took note of the details of manufacture and decided that it was indeed one of many copies. Then he got down to looking at the content.

Mycroft leaned forward, watching every muscle in Sherlock's face.

He turned the book over once and then again, not understanding. He had guessed right so far, he had a copy of something that would be in every bookstore in England in a few months. Mycroft had put it all together with Molly and surprising, Jamie. The tombstone may be in the place, the funeral passed, but in the end he could think of no greater tribute to John than this, and no surer way of keeping his brother alive.

Sherlock's fingers touched each word of the title as he read them to himself.

_**A Study in Pink** **and Other Tales of my Adventures with Sherlock Holmes**_

_**Exerts from the blog of Doctor John Watson **_

Opening it now, Mycroft knew Sherlock's eyes would fall upon the dedication. He had written it himself. It was in the end a small lie, but this was the most important part of the trick. As he read, Mycroft recited the words he knew by heart.

**The world recently suffered a great loss in the death of John Watson. Although we did not meet until we were grown men, John was much more than a friend to me. Countless times he followed me into foolish danger, never complaining and always remaining the bravest and most loyal person to ever live. Many have read the records he kept of our adventures and although I find them to be less than scientifically accurate, they are true memories of how it felt to chase crime through London. You hold now what I hope to be the first of many compilations of our case files and I shall write more so long as they are read. There is no truer way to keep the voice of John Watson alive. **

**Sherlock R. Holmes**

Pierce came across the room to touch Sherlock tentatively. The man was crying. He didn't say anything about it but he did put a hand on his shoulder. "My brother," Sherlock told him. "My idiotic brother."

He handed Pierce the book so he could look at it himself and went into the living room where he flung himself on the couch. Pierce glanced over it and then to Sherlock. After a moment's hesitation, he followed him.

"So this is Mycroft's doing then?"

"Yes." Sherlock said stoically. "He obviously means to strong arm me into taking more of John's blog and putting them in to 'stories'." He made contemptuous quotations with his fingers.

"Well...that's a good idea, isn't it?" Pierce asked, knowing he might be murdered on the spot for saying it. "I know lots of people would love to know more about your cases and John's blog was popular so...isn't it sort of neat?"

"Neat?" he sneered.

"Neat. Here, read me some."

"You've read the blog."

"Yeah, but I've never had you read it to me." he insisted, pushing the book at Sherlock. Sherlock glared. He glowered. Pierce just waited. When Sherlock finally took the paperback, the other man sat next to him on the couch, touching him but trying not to be overbearing about it. He just wanted Sherlock to know that he was here for him, and he would be, so long as he was wanted. And although he would never admit it aloud to present company, right now Pierce thought that Mycroft might just be the most brilliant person alive.

But he'd keep that to himself.

"Read some." he asked again.

Sherlock flipped past the introduction, letting his fingers touch the words again before turning more pages to arrive at the first story in the collection. He sighed, pulled Pierce over closer to him and started to read.

"_When I first met Sherlock, he told me my life story. He could tell so much about me from my limp, my tan and my mobile phone. And that's the thing with him. It's no use trying to hide what you are because Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds..."_

Pierce risked a glance sideways and saw that Sherlock had begun to smile.

_**The End**_

.

.

.

**Author Notes: Yes, the end of another. I hope everyone enjoyed it. Thank you to my readers and especially my reviewers, upon that especially especially to Tadpole11 who kept me writing even when I wanted to just toss it all out with the trash. I'll see everyone again for part III of the Dearest Trilogy, 'Eulogy'. **

**-hrlyqin**


End file.
